Santa Ana Wind, Part II, Sean
by Serialgal
Summary: The second story in the Moran brothers series. The Eppes brothers face the wrath and vindictive madness of Sean Moran.
1. Chapter 1

**Santa Ana Wind, Part II, Sean**

_A/N: This is the second part of the Santa Ana Wind series. It picks up directly where Part I left off. Again, I want to thank betas Alice I and FraidyCat for their devoted efforts to keep me straight. The whumping picks up significantly in this section of the story - be forewarned._

_Disclaimers: I do not own Numb3rs or any of the characters, and do not hope to profit from this story. Any resemblance of original fictional characters to real people is purely coincidental. This disclaimer applies to all chapters in this story._

**Chapter 1 **

Sean Moran sat on the floor of his apartment, rocking, the blinds drawn. The place was filthy, and reeked of urine and rotting half-eaten food. He'd just taken another hit – he needed double what he was taking just a few weeks ago, and had added a booster, another drug to heighten the effects. The dosage he was now on was approaching toxic levels for even an experienced user, but life was unbearable without it.

His mind raced like a cancerous rat in a cage – a sick lab experiment completely out of control. He'd been avoiding Dillon; his older brother had nothing but censure for him these days – wanted him to go into rehab. No freakin' way. Not now. Not so soon after Tommy…

He moaned, and shot to his feet, the rocking translated to pacing. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't erase the visions of Tommy's last moments – his desperate exit from the construction office, the standoff and the sickening sound of gunshots, the jerk of his body and the subsequent horrifying drop into the open grave. Then, following that, the memory of the FBI agent Eppes, running forward, his face dark with hatred. He'd ordered his team to kill Tommy, Sean was sure of it, because of his little puke of a brother. Eppes still had his brother, and he'd taken Sean's. It wasn't right…

He moaned again, louder, almost a yell of animal grief, and pulled at his stringy hair with both hands; standing in place and twisting from side to side. It was unbearable – and there was only one way to make it stop. Retribution – revenge for Tommy. There would be no rest until the Eppes brothers were gone. He paused, his hands fisted in his hair and stood still, just breathing for a minute, then turned with sudden purpose. A moment later, wearing a jacket and his gun in the waistband of his jeans, he left the apartment with a slam of the door.

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Charlie sat slumped at his office desk, his mind reeling, playing absently with the office badge. He shook his head in bewilderment. He'd thought everything had been settled with the paperwork issue – hell, he'd even taken the hit himself from a discipline standpoint, and had asked for the letter to be put in his file. How could Don think he wasn't taking responsibility for this, that he wasn't taking it seriously? He'd obviously eroded his brother's trust to the point that Don just didn't want to deal with it anymore – the problem was, if Charlie could no long work on cases, there was no way to prove himself, no way to win that trust back.

The cases themselves were challenging and rewarding, but that wasn't the big issue. The larger concern was his relationship with his brother. It had been non-existent before they'd started working together, and Charlie had no doubt the progress they'd made would slowly start to crumble without that stimulation, that common connection. Especially considering the way this new phase in their lives was starting off. He'd feel resentful, and Don would feel guilty – and those feelings would make it even harder to find common ground in the relationship. It would make things uncomfortable, and it would be easier for Don to stay away… he could see the end already, and he felt as though he'd just lost his best friend.

He heard Amita's soft voice from the doorway. "Hey," she said, and he looked up at her. Her face was filled with concern. It was just after noon, but the sky was gray outside, and the room dark. "Do you want the lights on?"

Charlie looked back at his desk, and pushed himself up in his chair. "Yeah, go ahead."

She flicked the switch and walked over to stand behind him, massaging his shoulders. They were still tight, tense from his many hours of being bound, and he took a deep breath as her fingers searched out the taut bundles of muscle, kneading his shoulders like a cat. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said. "Just a bad morning."

She leaned over and caressed his ear lightly with her lips. He felt a tingle run down his spine. "I bet I know a way to make it better," she murmured.

He turned a little and glanced at her sideways, with a small smile, but it looked sad, and it made her want to change his expression. She brushed his lips with hers.

Charlie closed his eyes and kissed her back deeply, circling his hand behind her head, his fingers entwined in her soft hair, trying to drown his sorrow in her lips. For a moment, he'd almost succeeded; then the sound of a throat clearing at the door brought them both apart, guiltily.

Colby shifted the box in his arms, freeing one hand to scratch the back of his head, embarrassment on his face. "Hey, I, uh, sorry to interrupt – I'll just drop these off…"

Charlie looked at him, puzzled. "What are they?"

Colby regarded him with a bit of a smirk. Amita's kisses must have fried the professor's brain, he thought. "The Moran files. Remember, I said I'd get you the data."

"Oh -," said Charlie, blankly. Don must not have told them yet, he thought, and the thought that immediately followed was, '_Why not?'_ Hope rose in him – maybe Don had second-guessed his decision. "Okay."

Colby set the box down with a thump. "We've been pulled off the Moran case but I figured it wouldn't hurt for you to take one more look while we go on to other leads. Just don't talk to them or let on to anyone but us that you're looking at this stuff. They're threatening a harassment lawsuit." He headed for the door, and paused on the way out, with a wicked grin. "Okay, carry on."

Amita looked at Colby with a blush and a smile, but when she looked down at Charlie, she realized she'd lost him. He was staring at the box, his mind obviously miles away.

Charlie barely felt her squeeze his shoulder, or heard her bemused good-bye. He originally had wondered if Don had second-guessed his decision, but he knew, deep down, that he hadn't – the greater probability was that Don simply hadn't told Colby yet. In truth, he knew that even if Don still wanted him to consult for his office, Charlie wouldn't have been allowed to do that on this case – his kidnapping made it too close, too personal, a conflict of interest. He felt guilty about even looking at the box that the files were in, much less at the files themselves – the Bureau wouldn't want him on this, Don definitely didn't want him on this, on anything, for that matter – but he knew, he _knew_, the Morans were involved somehow. If he didn't make the link, no one would.

He stood slowly, fighting the little voice in the back of his head that told him this was a huge mistake, and walked toward the box of files.

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Don headed wearily for his SUV late that afternoon, his mind on his conversation with Megan. David and Colby had just gone home; there had only been the two of them still in the office at the end of the day, and he'd decided to tell her about his decision concerning Charlie. He hadn't intended for it to be a discussion; he'd figured it simply as communication of his decision, and it never crossed his mind someone might argue with his logic. She had though – very gently, but she had. She did agree Charlie had a disturbing tendency to get lost in the excitement of what he was doing, and he wasn't always thinking about his surroundings. She didn't however, think that Don had the right to make that decision for him – if Charlie wanted to take the risks, she said; then he was an adult, and should be able to do that. She insinuated Don was making an emotional decision based on the events of the previous weeks, and that he should wait, give it some time, maybe even try Charlie on another case or two before he made a final call.

She had made her case quietly and remained calm even when he got irritated, which had irritated him further. He'd ended up restating his ultimatum a little angrily, and shortly after, she'd left, with no more arguments. He had sat there, trying to calm down, knowing his angry reaction only gave her argument more weight – it appeared he was being too emotional. Now, moments later, he was still thinking about it as he trudged through the garage. She sure wasn't making this any easier, he thought glumly, as he slid into his SUV, and pulled out of the FBI parking lot.

He'd been through that intersection hundreds of times – it was only two blocks from the FBI building, and no matter whether he was going to Charlie's house or his apartment, he always started out that direction. He wasn't sure later if the familiarity of the surroundings dulled his perception, or if the discussion with Megan was still on his mind, but when the light turned green he stepped on the gas without a second look. A split instant later, he caught a glimpse of the truck bearing down on him to his left, but it was too late. He didn't even remember the impact.

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Charlie was working furiously when Megan called. After Colby had dropped off the files and Charlie got a look at the huge pile of data, he immediately linked into the LA office website of the FBI via secure remote access, looking for the Moran files. His password was still working; that was a good sign. Maybe Don_ had_ changed his mind. He wasn't about to call and ask, however, and he downloaded the case files into his computer, fighting the uneasy feeling he was doing something he wasn't supposed to. To his great relief, he found that all of the data Colby had just delivered was already in some form electronically – it would have taken hours to input all of it. Everything was there, multiple bank accounts, accounts from the Moran businesses, tax records, even charitable contributions. It would be good to look through the hard copies too, but the data was what he needed to get started.

He took a break to teach his one class that afternoon, and then went back to work, developing search parameters that might find links between the data – links that might not be apparent to the human eye. He'd finished downloading the data to his computer and really had no current need for the FBI website, but it was still a bit of a shock when, late in the afternoon, the system suddenly shut down. He frowned and tried to re-enter, but the message came back: "User ID Not Recognized." With a sinking heart, he realized Don must not have changed his mind after all – Charlie suspected his password, at least as far as the LA server was concerned, had just been revoked.

That suspicion was confirmed when Megan called his cell phone, a few moments later.

"_Charlie, I just left the office,_" she said. "_Before I left, Don talked to me about his decision concerning your consulting work – I'm sorry_."

Charlie's heart dropped. It was true then, and final, if Don was announcing it to his team. He mumbled an acknowledgment of her apology; then hit 'save' with a dejected stab of his finger, and logged off, staring sadly at the blank screen in front of him, as she continued.

"_Colby and David left before I did; and Don hadn't told them yet. The reason I'm calling is I remembered Colby was going to deliver the Moran files to your office, so I called him. He said he dropped them off earlier. He was going back to the office to talk to Don, to explain that he didn't know about the decision, and then swing past your office to get them. I told him I would call you to tell you not to bother to start on them. Hold on a minute – I've got another call coming in – it's Colby_."

There was click, then silence as Megan switched to the other call, and Charlie waited, still hunched in front of his computer. After what seemed an eternity, the phone clicked again, and Megan said, "_Charlie, where are you now?"_

"I'm still at my office," said Charlie resignedly, missing the new tension in her voice. "Colby can swing by and get the files – I'll wait."

"_No, forget about that right now,_" she said tersely. "_Charlie, I want you to stay calm, and listen to me. Don's been in an accident – just a couple blocks from the office – Colby had gone back that way, and he's on the scene."_

The world froze for a moment. Charlie sat paralyzed; Megan's voice seemed as though it was coming from another planet, otherworldly, but with odd clarity. "How – how bad?" he stammered, as he felt an icy shock go through him.

"_He was unconscious – he's on his way to Huntington – but listen to me – don't go anywhere, I'll call Larry and have him drive you, okay? Charlie?"_

Her words went unheeded – Charlie was already dashing out of the office as she spoke. She heard the slam of his office door, and then nothing but silence.

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End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I'm going to be away for the weekend, so you get two chapters today._

**Chapter 2**

Sean pulled the truck back onto the lot, pulled off the hardhat, leaving it on the seat, and slid from the vehicle. It was a good-sized vehicle of the type used by electric workers and construction companies, and he had taken it from a construction company lot. The outfit, Maximum Enterprises, was run by a man named Max Baker, and was a front for part of Lenny's operations. Lenny ordered equipment for the meth houses through Max, who hid the orders among his regular construction buys, buying a piece here, a piece there. Lenny had his computer whiz, Mick O'Reilly, an old buddy of Dillon's, slightly inflate the entries of all of the equipment, both lawful and not, and had his own incorporation pay for the parts, and in turn Max got paid a hefty salary, both for running a construction company and for obtaining the illegal equipment. Like most of Dillon's and Lenny's businesses, Sean was familiar with it, and he'd slipped in that afternoon and taken the truck.

He'd tailed Eppes the day before, and checked out his route when he left the office. There was a street two blocks down from the office which intersected the road Eppes would take, and had two lanes in each direction. It was an easy matter to pull into the right lane at the light, put on his flashers and wait, making it appear as if the truck was there for construction purposes. Traffic flowed around him in the left lane for an hour, with the drivers giving him no more than a passing glance. Even the cop who went by didn't bother to stop. It wasn't uncommon for downtown drivers to have to go around a vehicle pulled over in the right lane, and the fact that it was a construction truck made it appear even more legitimate.

He grinned to himself, remembering. Eppes had pulled up to the light – he'd never even looked his way – although, slumped under a white hardhat, Sean knew he'd be hard to recognize. He started the truck, watching as the light prepared to change, and even before Eppes' light turned green, he was rolling, picking up speed. He gunned it, the truck lurching forward right into the SUV's door, and hit the sucker – bam! Just like that. He kept rolling and pushed the SUV, its horn stuck in a constant blare, right out of his way, and then swerved away down the street with a screech of tires. Freakin' awesome, just like the movies. The mass of the truck had protected him; his seat belt had kept him in place. When he glanced back in his rearview mirror, he could see the SUV still drifting slowly, Eppes slumped over the wheel. Hopefully, dead.

Now, back at the construction company lot, he looked around to make sure no one was watching and gave the front end of the truck a quick glance as he got out. There was a bit of black paint and some dents in the bumper, but not bad. The striking vehicle usually sustained less damage than the one it hit, especially when the one being struck got hit in the door. Nothing much between the driver and an oncoming vehicle, in a side collision. Sean's only regret was that he had to start too close – he couldn't work up as much speed as he wanted to. Still, he'd seen a guy killed once in less of a crash than that – the guy had smashed his head against the side window, turned his brains to mush.

The truck was unmarked, painted plain white, and there was a small logo on the door with the company's name, but it was hard to read unless the truck was sitting still. Unless someone caught the license plate it wouldn't be traced back here, but even if it was, Max could claim someone stole it off the lot. Sean laughed to himself as he climbed into his own vehicle. Someone did steal it off the lot. He snickered again, and the sound made him laugh harder, and harder yet, until he was sitting there cackling with helpless glee, as tears of mirth ran down his face.

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Megan reached the hospital just behind the ambulance. At Colby's phone call, she'd abruptly turned and headed for Huntington Memorial, but she was coming from another direction, and the ambulance had beaten her there. She'd swung into visitors' parking and had run for the door, but by the time she got inside, Don was already in a room. A nurse and an intern bustled by her and pushed through the doors, and she stood there rooted to the spot for a moment, her heart pounding. An officer came in moments later. He'd been at the scene and had followed the ambulance; the hit-and-run of a federal officer had been viewed from the start as potentially more than an accident, and LAPD was doing its duty and following up. He seemed relieved to see the FBI already there, but Megan didn't get much information from him, other than preliminary witness reports of a white truck, and that Don had been taken from the scene unconscious. Colby had stayed back at the scene, and David was joining him there to take evidence and question witnesses.

Megan had called Larry and asked him to try to catch Charlie, but hadn't heard back from him. She'd called Alan on her way, and he too was en route. Charlie had sounded stunned, and Alan panicked, and she worried about both of them, hoping they were keeping it together on the road.

The outside doors burst open, and she saw Charlie enter with a breath of relief. He sprinted down the hall from the ER waiting area, his face white, his eyes wild. A nurse stuck her head through the doorway behind him, admonishing him that he wasn't supposed to leave the waiting area, but he ignored her.

"Where is he?" he gasped; then pushed past them without an answer.

Megan reached out a hand to grab him. "Charlie – you can't go in there!" He twisted away, barely breaking stride, and burst in through the doors of the ER bay.

The attending ER physician glanced up sharply. The young man had exploded into the room like he'd been launched from a cannon, and then just stopped in the middle of the floor, literally quivering, his face pale, his eyes locked on the patient. "Sir, you need to wait outside," he snapped, and then shot a command to an orderly who resembled a football lineman. "Get him out of here."

"He's my brother," protested Charlie, as the orderly firmly took his arm and turned him around. He spoke desperately over his shoulder as he was pushed toward the door. "Is he okay – what's wrong with him? What-"

"We're going to get some scans and we'll tell you more," the doctor said sharply. "Wait outside."

Charlie was propelled through the door, and the orderly released his arm. He simply stood there staring at the floor, shaking with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. He felt another hand on his arm; Megan gently guided him down the hall, back through the doors to a chair in the ER waiting area, and he sank into it trembling, and looked up at her. His eyes were a little unfocused, still filled with shock and disbelief. "What happened?"

Before she could answer, she heard familiar voices and hurrying feet, and Larry, Amita and Alan came around the corner of the waiting area with a rush. Charlie leapt to his feet as Amita ran to him and hugged him, and as soon as they separated, Charlie stepped forward and embraced Alan – a hard needy hug, and Alan clutched him just as desperately back. They both stepped back and the entire group looked at Megan, as if waiting for an answer. She had precious little to give them

"It happened two blocks from the office," she said. "Colby and David are there getting more information, but it sounds like a truck ran a red light and hit the driver's side of Don's SUV, as he was going through the light."

Alan looked outraged. "Who was it – was he drunk?"

Megan shook her head. "We don't know – he left the scene. We know it was a white truck, commercial medium duty, like the ones construction companies use."

Alan looked at Charlie, anxiety on his face. "Did you get a chance to see Don?"

A vision of Don's pale face under the oxygen mask kept flashing through Charlie's mind, and he felt nausea rising as he nodded. "He's unconscious – the doctor said they're taking him for some scans." He suddenly felt the need for air; the group around him was too close, and he stepped away shakily toward the doors to the ER. They had glass panes, and he could see through them down the hall to the doors for Don's room. Just then those doors swung open and Don's gurney was pushed out, accompanied by the doctor and a crew of medical personnel. Charlie darted forward through the door again and down the hall, as the now irritated nurse called after him once more. He pulled up alongside the gurney, craning for a look at his brother's face. "Don?"

He'd gotten only a glimpse before he felt the doctor's hand on his arm. The sight hadn't been reassuring – his brother's eyes were still closed; he looked lifeless under the oxygen mask.

The doctor looked angry at first, but his expression gentled as he looked at the anxious young man. "He's got a concussion, and is badly bruised on his upper left side, especially his arm. His vitals are stable, which is a good sign. We're going to do a CT scan and some X-rays to check for internal injuries and broken bones, and try to determine the extent of the head injury. That will take a little while. Please go back to the waiting area, and we'll get back to you."

Without a further word, he strode away, after the gurney and its attendant crew. Charlie stood there silently, watching as they disappeared around the corner, immobilized by fear.

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End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The wait was agonizing. Charlie was strung more tightly than a banjo, and barely communicative, alternating between pacing the waiting room and a nearly catatonic stare. Even Amita was having a hard time getting through to him. Alan suspected that this situation, on top of his recent ordeal, was pushing his youngest nearly over the edge. Alan was teetering there himself, and he generally considered himself to have a more stable temperament than Charlie had.

An hour after they had taken Don for tests, Colby and David showed up. The group immediately converged on them for a report.

Colby hid most of his expressions behind a laid-back, slightly sardonic expression, but today his mouth was set in a tight line which told of anger. David looked downright outraged, his dark eyes flashing, as he spoke. "We got statements from several witnesses. They all agree, this looked intentional."

"What?" exclaimed Alan.

Colby nodded. "I talked to two businesswomen in a Starbucks right across the street. They were sitting next to a window; saw the man waiting there for an hour. Suddenly, he stepped on the gas – they could hear the tires screech and they looked out. They said he headed straight into the intersection, and he was accelerating when he hit Don. David got the same story from some of his witnesses."

"It's the Morans!" The words exploded from Charlie like bullets. "They're getting back at him!"

Megan turned to him. Charlie was so taut with pent up emotion, he appeared to be vibrating, his dark eyes furious. She shook her head, concern in her eyes. "Charlie, we don't know that. In fact, it's highly unlikely. Why would Dillon Moran do that after he'd pulled strings and gotten us taken off the investigation? It doesn't make sense. This could be anyone. Don's handled a lot of cases; put a lot of people away." Her gaze turned to Colby and David. "We need to get protection on him, right away. There's an officer here now; I'll contact LAPD to set-up ongoing surveillance."

"You're wrong," retorted Charlie. "It's got to be them. They want him off the case, they want revenge for their brother -,"

"Charlie, there is no case," said Megan firmly. Charlie's recent experience was clouding his judgment, she thought to herself. "We couldn't find a connection. Just relax, and let us do our jobs – we'll find who did this."

"There _is_ a case," Charlie retorted angrily. "I was there, remember? I heard what Tommy said, and there's a connection there somewhere, we just haven't found it yet."

The group was staring at him, but he didn't care. He'd never been so certain about anything in his life – why didn't they see it?

Megan's eyes were starting to spark a little, and Alan pulled Charlie aside and murmured to him. "Son, this isn't the time for this. She's right, you need to calm down and let them do their jobs."

Charlie's only response was to shake his head vehemently in frustration, and he strode away from the group to a nearby window, his slight frame exuding tension. '_They're wrong_,' he thought desperately. '_They're all wrong._'

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It was another half hour before the doctor finally appeared, and the group gathered around again. "Family members for Don Eppes," he stated, looking at the group, and Alan spoke up, trying to keep his voice steady.

"I'm his father. Everyone here can hear what you have to say."

"He's a lucky man," the doctor began, and the group visibly relaxed. "He escaped with no broken bones, no internal injuries, which was amazing, considering the extent of the bruising, and the fact that this was a side impact collision. He does have a moderate concussion, but even his head injury was far less severe than we would have expected."

David spoke up, quietly. "He had a side air bag. It was deflated, but it had deployed."

The doctor nodded. "That makes sense. It must have cushioned the blow at least somewhat before it deflated. He actually came to for a while as we were taking tests, but drifted out again. I expect periods of alternating consciousness for the next several hours. He will likely be nauseous, and have a hell of a headache, and of course the bruising will be quite painful. We have admitted him for observation, and he's being brought up to a room now. I expect he'll be in here for at least two days." He rattled off the room number, and raised an eyebrow at the FBI agents. "The officer went with him to his room. You're welcome to visit, although if you plan on questioning him you should speak to his attending physician first."

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All things considered, he didn't look too bad, Alan thought, although his stomach clenched instantly at the sight of his son, lying still, eyes closed. Don had a bruise on his jaw and another on his neck from the shoulder belt. His left arm looked far worse, it was discolored and swollen, and gave a ghastly hint of the probable appearance of the other bruises which were hidden under his hospital gown. Alan could see swelling, not quite hidden by his son's short hair, on the side of his head, and he shuddered, sending a grateful prayer to the saint of side airbags. There was no doubt in his mind his son had been extremely lucky. He settled quietly at Don's side, taking his hand, his eyes intent on his son's face. He and Charlie were the only two in the room – the others had gone for the time being, to give the Eppes men some time together. David would return later when Don was more coherent, to get his statement. Although Alan kept his eyes on Don, he was well aware of Charlie behind him, shifting from foot to foot.

Charlie felt ready to explode. He had been greatly relieved Don's injuries weren't worse than they were, but the idea that someone had apparently tried to kill his brother terrified him. The presence of the officer in the hall was reassuring, but Charlie was concerned Don's team wasn't looking in the right place. He felt instinctively that the Morans were involved, and they weren't even being considered as suspects. If that was the case, if Don's team wasn't looking at the right people, they would never find who did it. Eventually, after a time, after Don was back on his feet, they'd pull the surveillance, and the Morans would try again. Someone needed to show that the Morans were guilty, and it seemed the only candidate was him.

He was able to continue with the case if he wanted to. Even if Colby came for the files, Charlie had what he needed on his computer. Although his password to Don's office server was revoked, he still had general FBI security clearances that would allow him access to central FBI databases and search engines. The problem was; he was no longer cleared to work on the case. As much as he disagreed with his brother's actions in revoking his consulting rights, he was reluctant to go against his wishes, especially now, when Don couldn't argue with him. It seemed sneaky and underhanded. Not to mention illegal. If he was caught, he'd probably never consult again, for anyone – he could possibly even go to prison, if the government really wanted to be vindictive. The one bright spot was they wouldn't be able to blame Don for it – internal affairs could hardly say he should have known what was going on, when he was out with a concussion.

It was that thought which finally made up his mind. There was no risk from a career standpoint for Don. His brother's life was at stake; there was really no choice in the matter. They'd been backed into a corner – and it was time to fight back. He spoke to Alan's back. "I'm going to the office to get my computer. I'll be right back."

Alan turned with a frown, but Charlie's restless feet had picked up speed and had already carried him out the door. Alan rubbed his face with his free hand with a bit of exasperation. His sons were both strong-willed, and hard to read. Don rarely showed emotion. God knew, Charlie sure did, but his mind moved with such frightening speed, it was hard to know exactly what he was thinking, even when one could see his expressions. He had no idea what was going on in Charlie's head right now, other than he was extremely upset, which was understandable. He didn't quite comprehend why Charlie needed his computer at a time like this, but if it helped him cope, then he wasn't going to argue – Charlie had been through a lot himself, lately. If Alan had known the extent of his younger son's thoughts, he would have been alarmed. Instead, he sighed and waited patiently for one son to wake up, and the other to return.

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Many hours later, Charlie convinced his father to go home and sleep. He'd come back and set up his computer, pecking away quietly in the corner, only stopping when Don awoke. Don drifted in and out, semi-coherent and in obvious pain. Charlie almost hated it when he woke, the pinched look of suffering on his brother's face made his gut twist. The more he contemplated what had happened, how easily they had gotten to Don, the more frightened and determined he became. He had to find a way to shut the Morans down. He volunteered to stay the night, in part because he had no intention of sleeping – he would work until he got this done. He knew it would make Alan feel better if one of them was there, and Alan finally conceded, and left for home. Charlie typed on into the night, his mind transported into another world via the computer screen.

Around two a.m., a moan broke his concentration, and he was at his brother's side instantly. Don's eyes were open, halfway anyway, and this time he seemed to be focusing a little better. Charlie was standing on his brother's uninjured side, and he laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Hey, Donnie," he said softly.

One corner of Don's mouth lifted slightly, in a ghost of a smile. "Hey, Buddy," he whispered; then winced weakly.

Charlie stared at him with concern. "What do you need? Anything? Water?"

Don made a sound like a hiss, and Charlie realized he was saying 'ice.' He gently lifted a cup to Don's lips, and jostled the ice until a chip slid into his brother's mouth. Don maneuvered it gingerly with his tongue, swallowing as it melted. Charlie watched him, his heart heavy. His brother seemed so weak, barely able to move. "Are you in pain?"

"Yeah, hurz a little," Don admitted. His voice was mostly whisper; just the faintest of tones threading through it. He stared up at Charlie – somewhere in the back of his mind he felt sad, and he didn't know why. He had the conviction he should say he was sorry, but he couldn't remember for what, and he suddenly was too tired to talk, anyway. Instead he stared at him, sorrowfully, and Charlie gazed sadly back, until he fell asleep, with the reassuring feeling of his brother's hand on his arm.

Charlie worked up until 5 a.m. A nurse came in to do rounds, taking Don's readings, and he realized he'd been nodding. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the screen. He really was close to completion. Now it was time to start the program, and let it run through the algorithms. He didn't want to do that here, though – when Alan came in he would go home and start it there, where it could run interrupted, without anyone seeing it. He packed the computer away, dragged a chair over to Don's side, and laid his hand on his brother's arm again – not exactly sure who the gesture comforted more, his brother or himself. When Alan came in two hours later, that was how he found them, both asleep.

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End Chapter 3

_A/N: Patty commented in a review at the end of SAW Part I that Cheryl Heuton mentioned Charlie will be taking FBI courses in an upcoming episode. The comment made me smile, because that exact topic comes up in conversation in one of the last chapters of this story. Just in case the episode airs before that chapter posts, I want you to know in advance that it was there to begin with. P.S. I do read your reviews - every one._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Dillon Moran parked his car outside Sean's apartment, and paused in front of his brother's car, inspecting the front end. The apartments were more like duplexes; the doors for each opened to the outside. He had a key, and he used it, stepping inside quietly.

He glanced around at the trash in disgust, his nose wrinkling at the smell. Wading through fast food wrappers and pizza boxes, he made his way toward Sean's bedroom, his distaste deepening as he found his brother sprawled in bed with an emaciated, sleazy-looking girl. A video camera had been set up and was pointing in their direction, and Dillon shook his head in revulsion and anger. Stupid. Stupid, stupid. He stepped forward and gave Sean a poke. "Seanie-boy," he said softly, his voice accented, not with the Philadelphia dialect, but with the soft, menacing Irish brogue their father had used, when he was displeased.

Sean started and sat up, his hair in disarray, and wiped the drool from his chin with the back of his wrist. "Christ, Dillon, you scared the hell out of me!"

"Get dressed," said Dillon, his voice still soft, but cold, as the frowzy-haired girl next to Sean stirred. "Get rid of her. Now."

Moments later, the girl came stumbling out and hooked an unsteady arm through her purse on the counter, headed outside to wait for a cab. She was whining. "Do I have to wait outside? It's cold." She caught the look on Dillon's face, and stopped abruptly, weaving her way out the door without another word.

Dillon turned to face Sean, whose face was filled with apprehension, and spoke. "I've received word Agent Eppes was injured yesterday – a hit and run. Do you know anything about that, Sean?"

Sean looked away, his chin quivering a little, but he couldn't suppress the smile. "Too bad," he said, ignoring the question. "Is he dead?"

"No," said Dillon flatly. "He's in the hospital, in stable condition."

"Damn," said Sean, frustration taking over his expression. '_No matter_,' he thought to himself, '_I'll get to him._'

"Do you have an alibi for around 6 pm last evening?" Dillon asked.

Sean's eyes flitted away, then back. "No. I was here," he said defensively.

"No, you weren't," replied Dillon, his eyes boring into Sean's. "You were at my house, in your room, since four in the afternoon, yesterday. You left your door shut, and I managed to make the staff think you'd been there, sleeping, since then. I had the cook bring you a tray and leave it outside your door as soon as I heard about the accident, which was around seven. I put it in your room, messed it up a little and put it back out two hours later. That's your alibi. You weren't feeling well, and were sleeping. Didn't eat much of your dinner. Got it?"

Sean nodded; his eyes wary, and picked nervously at his arm, twitched, and pulled some hair. "So what makes you think I need an alibi?'

Dillon shrugged. "You may not. But it's better to be prepared, don't you agree?" His eyes roved the room, and his expression hardened. "This is a pigsty, Sean. You never used to live like this. Now, you need to collect some clothes, and I want you to gather anything that could be illegal – guns, drugs, your porn in the other room. We're taking it with us, in case the cops decide to come in and toss this place. You're going to stay with me the rest of this week, and Monday, you're going to check in at a clinic. It's all arranged."

Sean opened his mouth in protest, but Dillon waved it off, his eyes hard and icy cold. "No arguments, Seanie-boy," he said, his voice lapsing into the brogue, soft and deadly.

Sean felt a chill run down his spine, and his mouth snapped shut. He gathered his things quietly, but already he was forming an escape plan. He was not done with the Eppes brothers, not by a long shot, and there was no way he was going into rehab. No way. His head jerked spastically, and he grinned to himself as popped a hit of meth, then stuck his camera under his arm. He'd take care of business, and gain Dillon's respect in the process. Dillon would see that he was someone to be reckoned with. He'd see.

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When Don awoke again, it was near ten in the morning, and he was unfortunately, a great deal more aware. His left side felt like someone had used him for piñata practice, and his stomach churned with nausea. Worst of all was the mallet that was pounding at his head. He winced at the light streaming into the room. "Can someone turn that out?"

The windows unfortunately had no coverings, but Alan got up and pulled the curtain along that side of the bed, blocking the sunlight. Don stared at him blearily, forehead puckered in a frown of pain. "What happened?" he asked. His voice sounded raspy.

Alan stared at him. "You don't remember?"

Don started to shake his head, and stopped himself as the room tilted. He stared at the end of the bed, and Alan thought for a moment he was going back to sleep, but then he spoke. "I was hit." He looked at Alan. "I remember something coming from the side. I was leaving work."

Alan nodded, and felt a little knot of tension unravel in his gut. Don's mind was working well enough to remember that, at least. A knock at the door sounded, and David stepped into the room. "Am I interrupting?"

Alan shook his head, and ushered him in with a little flourish of his hand, and a smile. "He just woke up. We were just talking about what happened. He said he remembered leaving work and something coming from the side."

David stepped forward, and shook his head smiling. "Now this is the hard way to get some time off," he said.

Don sent him a rueful look. "Tell me about it."

David's expression sobered. "Did you get a look at him?"

Don looked at him blankly. "You know it's a 'him?'"

David sighed. "Well, I guess that answers that question. We got reports of a white commercial truck, medium duty. Logo on the side, too small for anyone to read, and no one got the plates. The witnesses said it looked intentional – he was accelerating when he hit you. Some of them said it was definitely a man, but he was wearing a hard hat, and we have conflicting descriptions of him. Almost all thought he was Caucasian, but that's about the only agreement we got." He watched Don frown, processing the information, then asked, "You notice anyone unusual hanging around lately? Or have you heard of anyone getting out who may have it in for you?"

Don shook his head, and winced at the motion and the surge of nausea it brought. He had to quit doing that. "No."

"We've got protection on you until we work this out," David said quietly. He glanced at Alan. "We're assuming he'll go to your place when he's released. We'll put surveillance on the house when he gets there."

Don closed his eyes and lay there; his mind sorting through the possibilities. The first person he thought of was Dillon Moran, but he pushed the thought away. Moran had already been successful in getting them off his case, and if he'd planned this, he wouldn't have incriminated himself by threatening a lawsuit. He was too smart for that. Plus, even after all their searching, there was no evidence Moran was doing anything illegal that he had to be worried about. It had to be someone else.

He opened his eyes, only to find that David had gone – assuming he'd drifted off again. Alan was regarding him quietly, with a tender look that made him feel like he was five again. Don's eyes roved the room. "Where's Charlie?"

"He went home when I came in, around seven."

Don's brow knit. "He was here?"

Alan's brows raised a bit. "Yes, all night. He stayed here and worked on his computer. Don't you remember?"

Don stared at the wall. A vision of dark concerned eyes, the feel of a gentle hand on his arm, came back to him. And sadness – for some reason, sadness. "Yeah, I guess I do. It's kind of fuzzy."

"He said you slept most of the time." Alan rose. "If you're okay for a minute, I'm going for a coffee."

"Hmm-hmm," said Don, closing his eyes, as Alan made his way out of the room. Suddenly, a memory from the day before assailed him, and his eyes popped open. He stared at the foot of the bed, his heart dropping as he remembered his conversation with Charlie at the office. Now he knew where the sadness had come from. He had seen it in his brother's eyes last night, and even though he didn't want to admit it, he felt it as well.

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Charlie stared at computer screen, dispiritedly. He was working at home – he'd called off that day, which had been expected; Amita and Larry had apparently told Millie about the accident, and she had already arranged coverage for his classes during the next two days. He felt guilty on all counts – he was working at home instead of being at the hospital, and playing hooky from class to boot. Not to mention the fact that he was working on a federal investigation for an office from which he'd been banned. On top of all of that, he was going against his brother's wishes.

Most disappointing of all, he'd made little progress. There were many connections between Dillon's business ventures, as might be expected, and he had found one thing which stuck out – there were transactions between all of them and a charity Dillon had founded for underprivileged teens, called Outreach. Megan had been right however; none of it looked illegal. He sighed and rose, wandering almost aimlessly, lost in thought, and found himself in the garage. There, he slowly picked up a piece of chalk, and began plotting random points in a rough group, each representing Dillon's businesses. To the left side, he put a bigger dot – the link between all of them, the charity. Outreach accepted contributions from other businesses in the area, and those Charlie plotted in a group on the other side of the dot. When he was done, he had something that roughly resembled a butterfly; the charity, the large dot, was the body, and the point clouds on either side resembled wings. One wing for Dillon's businesses, the other, for everyone else.

He rubbed his face wearily and set the chalk down, and began wandering again. None of it meant anything. One of the key components of the operation Tommy described was real estate – he had said the meth was made in several small houses, and Dillon owned nothing like that – several business properties, but no houses other than his own, and a beach house in Malibu.

Maybe Megan was right – it wasn't Dillon, after all. The only thing that had gotten him thinking along these lines was one word – Tommy's use of the word 'family.' Who was the family? Did Tommy mean his own, as Charlie suspected, or did 'family' means something else?

He found himself at his computer again, and idly Googled 'Dillon Moran.' There was more than one, and he sifted through them. An entry in Philadelphia for Dillon Moran, senior, caught his eye, and he read through it. It concerned Dillon's father, who had also been a successful businessman. He scanned listlessly through the articles, and eventually hit an obituary. Dillon senior had died in February 1997, survived by wife Margaret – Charlie's heart twisted a little at the name, the same as his own mother's – also survived by sons Dillon, Sean, and Thomas, and step-son Leonard Angelo. Charlie blinked and stared, slowly righting in his chair. Leonard Angelo? Who was Leonard Angelo?

His fingers flew over the keys, as he logged into and out of databases. He found a Leonard Angelo in the DMV database, right there in LA, about the right age, and headed straight for the county tax assessment records. He pulled up reams of information here – gas stations and convenience stores, corner markets, a construction company, and bingo – several moderately priced homes in comfortable middle-class developments. All of the businesses made charitable contributions to Outreach. The other wing of the butterfly belonged to family, all right – Leonard Angelo. He ran the meth houses, processed drug money in small amounts through the many small businesses, and transferred it to Dillon through the charity. He caught his breath, his heart beating with excitement. He had it – finally – it would take a while to get it into a report, but he had it.

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The phone in the study rang, and Dillon picked it up absently, his mind still on Sean. Mick O'Reilly, Lenny's computer expert, was on the line. "_We maybe got a problem_," he said.

Dillon scowled. "What?"

Mick was a computer genius; his ability to hack into other systems was uncanny, and he'd wormed his way into the tax assessment system, with the help of an associate of Dillon's. There he patched in a link which told him whether anyone was monitoring either Dillon's or Lenny's records, and how often. It was designed as an alert – if the feds or LAPD started nosing around, they would have some warning – they would be able to hide evidence, or even close down the meth houses, if it looked bad enough. Dillon's records had been getting a lot of hits, or inquiries, from the feds lately, but that was no surprise – they knew the feds were investigating him, and all of Dillon's stuff was legitimate, anyway. Hits on Lenny's businesses, on the other hand, meant a problem.

Mick's voice sounded tense, grating. "_Lenny's stuff's been gettin' a bunch of hits – just started late this morning_."

Dillon felt his heart contract. "Feds?"

"_No – a private computer. __Whoever it is has been hittin' your stuff too – and Outreach_."

"Find out who it is." Fear made Dillon's voice abrupt.

"_I'll try; might take a little while_."

"We don't have a little while. Get on it and get back to me."

The line disconnected, and Dillon sank into his chair, fingertips tented, his mind racing. He had the feeling he was on the edge of a precipice, and he had to dig in with his pylons to keep from tumbling over the edge. First Sean and his antics, and now this. The Morans were a tenacious lot, however, and he would do anything to hold on to what was his – even if it came down to eliminating a threat. And there was no doubt in his mind, whoever was on the other end of that computer was most definitely a threat.

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End Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Megan walked wearily out of the conference room, headed for her desk, trailed by David and Colby. They'd spent the morning poring over Don's past cases, double-checking the whereabouts of the perps he'd put away. A few had been released, but not recently, and only two were in the area. David and Colby were going to pay them a visit and check their alibis. She glanced at the thick file on her desk; then looked more closely. The tab was labeled "Moran," but it didn't look like any of the files they'd compiled. She sank into her chair as she opened it, her eyes captured by the handwritten note tucked on top of the report.

"_Megan – _

_I had already downloaded the Moran files, and I worked on them last night and this morning_."

Before going any further, her eyes flew down to the bottom of the page, but she really didn't need to see Charlie's signature to recognize his familiar handwriting. "Charlie," she said to herself in an exasperated tone. Maybe Don was right after all – Charlie seemed to be unable to follow his brother's direction. She'd been hoping she could change Don's mind, but she had an awful feeling that by compiling this report, Charlie had just sealed his fate. Don would feel even more justified in his decision. In fact, she suspected he'd be downright furious.

She sighed and kept reading, and her jaw dropped.

"_I found a definite link between Dillon Moran and his step-brother, a man named Leonard Angelo. Angelo runs several small businesses in the LA area, and owns small residential properties similar to the ones Tommy described. If you investigate, I think you'll find your meth labs there. The meth is sold on the street, and the money laundered in small amounts at the small businesses, and then transferred to Dillon's accounts via a charity called Outreach. Outreach is the financial link between Angelo's and Moran's operations. It's not-for-profit and is tax-exempt, so I imagine any government auditing is cursory at best. Dillon runs the charity; he puts in enough of the contributions and drug money to keep it running, and siphons off the rest. I think you'll find plenty in here – enough to obtain warrants to raid the labs, and to pick up the Morans and Lenny Angelo. You can call me if you have questions – I just didn't want people to see me talking to you – I didn't want to get you into any trouble with Don. I'm going to tell him what I did, and make sure he knows you didn't ask me to do this. I know it wasn't right, but I didn't think he'd be safe as long as the Morans were still out on the street. _

_P.S. If you check out the construction company listed under Leonard Angelo's name, you may find the truck that hit Don. Just a guess. Charlie_

She just stared for a moment, then came to her senses and jumped to her feet, calling out to Colby and David, who were heading out the door. "Guys, wait a minute. We need to get a judge and get some warrants, pronto!"

'Pronto' turned out to be an hour, which was the soonest they could gain audience with a federal judge. They spent the hour running through the report and manning the phones. An officer and some lab people had been dispatched to the construction lot to look at the trucks. By the time they were ready to head for the judicial building, a block away, they had LAPD, SWAT, the DEA, and other law enforcement branches busy lining up people to compile teams for the raids. As soon as they had the warrants, they were going to hit the meth houses, and simultaneously try to take in the Morans and Angelo. The coordinated effort would ensure that the chances of tipping off the perpetrators would be kept to a minimum. Wright had been informed of the situation, and everything was being readied. All they needed were the warrants.

Judge Orlando Wilson looked up from the documents in front of him and raised his eyebrows, eying the agents over his reading glasses. "This one was a long time coming," he said. "I've been hearing about it on the news."

"Yes, sir," said Megan, with a tight smile. '_Come on, let's get on with this_,' she thought impatiently. This was a huge undertaking – the biggest operation she'd ever coordinated, and excitement warred with nerves inside her.

"I can give you warrants for the meth houses, and for Dillon Moran and Lenny Angelo. I can't see my way to giving you one for Sean Moran, however."

Megan felt a surge of frustration, but tried to keep her expression calm. "We've got his rap sheet in the file. We believe he's part of the operation."

Wilson's voice rose slightly as he picked up a pen and began signing the warrant for the meth labs. "I just don't see it. He lives on charity from his brother in a small apartment. He isn't wealthy, or even apparently very smart. Sure, he has a history of drug use, and his lifestyle is deplorable, but he's incidental to your case." He finished signing, and handed them back the paperwork, leaving the warrant for Sean Moran on his desk. "Come back with more evidence that he's connected to this, and I'll give you Sean Moran."

"Yes, sir," answered Megan, stoically. "Thank you, your honor."

Outside the judge's chambers, Colby muttered, "Tough break. It would have been nice to make a clean sweep."

"Hey, I'm glad to get this much," admitted Megan. "Once we get the operations shut down and Dillon and Angelo in custody, we can work on a connection with Sean. When you think about it, leaving him on the street for a day or two isn't going to hurt – he's too much of a doper to be anything other than relatively harmless."

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Charlie made his way into Huntington Memorial and got as far as a first floor waiting area near the elevators. There he paused, hesitating. He was dreading this conversation; in spite of the fact that he'd solved the case, he knew Don was going to be angry. A television was blaring, broadcasting a CNN newscast, and he stalled for a moment, pretending to watch it, trying to work up his courage.

The newscaster's voice floated through the room, but he was only marginally aware of it. "_And in California, a resurgence in the Santa Ana winds is re-igniting wildfires in San Diego and outside Los Angeles. Most of these fires had been nearly contained, but now officials are concerned the battle may be starting again-_,"

"Charlie!"

Charlie started, and turned to see his father, looking at him quizzically. "Hi, Dad," he said automatically, stammering a little. "How's he doing?"

Alan peered at him. "Much better. Very cranky, but much better. He's keeping liquids down; they're probably going to send him home in the morning." He paused, perplexed. "Why are you standing down here?"

"Oh, I, uh, I was on my way up, and something on the TV caught my eye," Charlie stumbled over the words, with a guilty flush. "Are you going up?"

"Actually, no, I was heading for the cafeteria. It's dinnertime – do you want something?

Charlie shrugged. "Sure, a sandwich or something maybe." He hesitated.

"Go ahead up." Alan's expression was still mildly suspicious, but his voice was kind.

"Okay, see you in a bit." Charlie's heart sank – there was no backing out now. He put his head down and headed for the elevator.

Upstairs, he had to show his ID to the officer outside Don's room. He was relieved at his presence – even though the Morans would soon be in custody, he hoped Megan wouldn't pull the protection until it was over. A nurse was in the room attending to Don, and Charlie stayed out in the hallway for a few minutes, waiting until she was done. She bustled out, and he realized he couldn't stall any longer. He stepped through the doorway, and was greeted with a scowl. He noticed as he entered that the officer drifted over to the nurse's station, a few feet away, for which Charlie was sincerely thankful. This was sure to be uncomfortable enough without a stranger listening in.

Alan had been right, Don _was_ cranky. He'd gotten to the point where he felt sufficiently well to resent the fact that he was stuck in a hospital bed, but the pain from his bruises was a constant reminder of the fact that he was probably not going to be functioning normally; or at least without pain, anytime soon. Added to that was the incessant headache – it wasn't the pounding it had been in the morning, but it was still worse than any he'd ever had, and it was wearing on him. He was tired of the pain, tired of the confinement, tired of the bed. He sent Charlie a baleful glare. "Nice of you to drop by."

Charlie looked at him, shamefaced. "I'm sorry – I uh, got sidetracked at home."

Don took a closer look, and felt a bit ashamed himself at his snappishness. Charlie looked exhausted and miserable. He reminded himself that even though he didn't remember much of it, Charlie had been there the entire previous night. "Nah, forget it. I'm just in bad mood."

'_Great_,' thought Charlie. He looked down at his feet, well aware that Don was watching him curiously. Not for the first time, he wished his expressions were harder to read. Might as well get it over with. He looked up. "I – well, you know the Moran case…"

Don's face immediately turned suspicious. "Charlie, we talked about this. No more cases, remember?" Inside, he felt twinge of frustration. Why couldn't Charlie just let go?

"I know," said Charlie, his expression infused with guilt. "I had to work on it though, no one else was. No one told me to, though – I gave the report to Megan, but she didn't ask me to do it." He mistook Don's stunned silence as willingness to listen, and stumbled on, his words tumbling out rapidly. "There _was_ a connection – the Morans have a half-brother named Lenny Angelo – he's the one running the meth labs-,"

"Charlie." Don's voice shook with anger, and he felt a stab of hurt. Charlie had gone behind his back, taking advantage of the fact that he was in the hospital. He'd nearly been killed, for God's sake, and his brother apparently cared so little he couldn't even wait one day to flaunt his authority. "What in the hell is this? My decision was not negotiable."

Charlie's voice rose in frustration. "But no one was working on it. I knew the Morans were in it, and it turned out I was right."

Don stared at him, with a look that Charlie couldn't fathom. There was anger, but there was something else, too – disappointment? When he spoke, Don's voice was weary. "Do you really think I'm that stupid? You think I can't function without you, is that it?" Don winced as pain shot through his head, and his voice rose, as he stabbed a finger at Charlie. "Well, I've got news for you, Charlie – I did this job just fine before you came along, and I'll do just fine without you!"

Charlie stared at him, stung. Was that really what Don thought – that he was driven by some kind of smug superiority complex? "That's not why I did it – Don, you're one of the smartest guys I know – it's just, there was no one working on the Moran angle, and-,"

"There was a reason for that, Charlie! The rest of my team had dropped it when I asked them to, like team members should, when they're given direction. But not you – you saw I was out of commission and took the opportunity to go behind my back." Don rubbed his face, with an exasperated swipe. "I don't want to talk about this any more, Charlie. Just, please, stay out of it." He looked tired, and disappointed.

Charlie winced and hesitated, desperation rising inside. He knew Don would be angry, but he didn't realize how personally he'd take this. He had a horrible feeling that if he didn't clear this up, their relationship would be irreparably damaged. Somehow, he had to make Don understand his reasoning. He tried vainly to keep his voice level, but it shook, just a little. "I'm sorry, I know it was wrong, but I didn't think I had a choice."

Don closed his eyes and laid back, one hand on his throbbing head. "I don't believe you, Charlie, I don't trust you anymore, and I don't want to hear it. I'm tired, and I'm really not up for this right now – you should just go home."

"Don-,"

"Charlie, please, just go!"

Alan had come up the hallway, sandwiches in hand, pausing in surprise as he heard the raised voices. Charlie came stumbling out of the doorway, a picture of misery, and stopped just staring at Alan for a moment, wordless, his chest heaving with suppressed emotion.

Alan looked baffled, shocked. "Charlie, what's going on?"

Charlie said nothing, just shook his head, and pushed past, blindly, leaving Alan staring at him. For the second time in weeks, he'd tried to do the right thing and he'd blown it. Jumped in with both feet like a naïve overly-optimistic idiot, driven by the conviction that he knew he was right. Both times, he'd hoped to save lives – the lives of unknown people threatened by fire, and the life of his own brother, threatened by the same family who had nearly killed him. How could something that seemed so right go so wrong? He stepped on the elevator and punched at the button, mindlessly, overwhelmed with grief, guilt, and frustration. He'd been trying to save his brother, and he had the horrible suspicion he'd just lost him – for good.

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End Chapter 5

_A/N: Whump alert for Charlie - and by the way, I'm not done with Don yet either..._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Megan gave the go-ahead quietly into the radio, and simultaneously, teams spread across the city began the raids. Her team was stationed in the lush shrubbery surrounding the Moran estate, and they moved forward quietly, two groups taking the rear and side entrances, and Megan's own group taking the front.

Gaining access was ridiculously easy; none of the doors was locked, and agents streamed through the kitchen area past shocked servants. Megan, Colby and David stepped quietly into the foyer to find it deserted, but the study door was cracked a bit, and, guns readied, they moved silently down the hall toward it and the sound of voices.

They paused at the door, and Dillon's voice floated through the small gap. "Yeah, Mick I'm here. Lenny's with me. You figure out what computer those hits were comin' from?"

A voice came over the speaker phone. "It was a personal computer belonging to a Charles Eppes." Megan's eyes flashed, and she held a finger to her lips, exchanging a meaningful glance with Colby and David.

"Eppes!" exclaimed Dillon. "That sneaky bastard pulled his team off the investigation, but then he stuck his brother on it! You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," the phone voice said.

"So what do we do?" another voice asked, and the agents strained to hear. That was probably Lenny Angelo, thought Megan.

There was a silence; then Dillon spoke. "There's probably no way to know if he told anyone what he found yet. If he didn't…,"

"We might as well take the chance," said Lenny. "We got nothin' to lose."

"Yeah, you're probably right," said Dillon. "We should pay him a visit."

Colby's eyes narrowed, and David glowered. Megan smiled grimly and gave them a nod. They'd heard enough.

She gave the partially open door a kick, and moved into the room smoothly, gun leveled at the surprised men, Colby and David behind her. "You'll be paying a visit, all right, gentlemen – to the federal penitentiary. FBI - hands on your heads – now!"

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Sean listened quietly to the phone conversation, and gave his nose a wipe with a shaky hand. Dillon had left all of Sean's belongings in his car except his clothes, and refused to let Sean leave his room. Everything else – Sean's camera and DVD equipment, his disks, his gun, and most importantly, his meth stash – were still locked in Dillon's trunk. Sean had gone a whole day without a hit, and he was in bad shape, trembling, jerking, his eyes and nose running, his skin crawling as if it was infested with insects. He'd scratched ugly welts on his arms and legs. His mind was spinning, whirling –he couldn't think straight. If he didn't get a hit soon, he'd go insane. He had finally crept out of his room and into the hallway, trying to find out if his brother was still in the house.

His eyes caught the light on the phone in Dillon's bedroom. His brother's line and the one in the study were tied together; separate from the other lines in the house, for Dillon's privacy, for the business. He tiptoed into the room and gently lifted the receiver. If he listened in, he might find out what Dillon's plans were, and if he intended to go anywhere soon.

He heard Mick's voice on the line, and the ensuing conversation set his teeth on edge. Eppes again – the younger one and the agent, both causing problems. It reminded him of Tommy, and he ground his teeth in anger. He stopped abruptly as a woman's voice came through the receiver, and nearly dropped the phone in shock. FBI – his brother and Lenny were being arrested – God no…

He dropped the receiver and bolted for the landing, but was afraid to go down – if they saw him, they might take him too. He ran back in the bedroom, and caught a glimpse of activity down in the yard below, through the window. He rushed to it and peered through the glass, shaking, his face contorted in fear and rage. They couldn't take Dillon, they couldn't! How would he get money? He wouldn't be able to pay for the meth, and he had to have it. How could he live without the meth? If Dillon was gone, who was going to bail him out when he got in trouble? He stood shaking; his fists clenched, snot and tears running down his face, as they led his brother, handcuffed, to a waiting vehicle.

He heard voices on the stairs, and whirled around to face the door. Agents were coming up the stairs, moving through the house. He stood, quaking, frozen with indecision and fear. He'd never live through prison, God, he needed a hit…

Colby spotted the man first, and instantly recognized Sean Moran. Even if he hadn't seen Sean's mug shot, the resemblance to Tommy gave him away. Most of the household help were being corralled and questioned, treated politely as witnesses, but Colby knew instinctively that they needed to be cautious with Sean; his past record and current, half-deranged appearance prompted the agent to bark, "Hands on your head!"

He moved swiftly into the room, followed by David, and they patted Sean down, as he stood with his hands up, shaking; his face twisted with hate. Colby stepped back and eyed the addict with distaste. "Where does your brother keep his business records?"

Sean glared at him. "I don't know – I don't know nuthin' about his businesses."

David's eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?"

Sean sneered. "Visitin.' Since-," He almost said 'this morning,' and then remembered he was supposed to have been here since yesterday afternoon. "Since yesterday."

David and Colby stepped back and took a quick look around the room. It appeared to be a master bedroom, probably Dillon's, and could stand to be searched. Colby jerked his head at another agent who had appeared in the doorway. "This is Sean Moran. Take him downstairs – let the LAPD detectives know that he needs to be questioned." The agent nodded, and stepped forward, grabbing one of Sean's arms, and steering him toward the door. Colby and David watched him go. "Too bad we don't have a warrant for him, too," said David softly.

"Yeah," agreed Colby. "He smells like trouble."

Sean stumbled down the steps, shaking, consumed with fury. The Eppes brothers – this was all their doing. First they'd taken Tommy from him, and now Dillon. He'd screwed up with the agent, but by God he was going to get him – and his sneaky little brother too. He'd vowed it, the day Tommy died, and he needed to finish it. He was steered into the dining room and instructed to wait for a detective. As he stood there, shaking with rage and despair, it came to him. He knew just how he would do it. They would feel Tommy's pain, _his_ pain, before he was done.

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Don stared morosely at the foot of the bed, brooding. His father had shown up right after Charlie had gone, and Don had snapped at him and sent him away, too. His father had given him a shake of the head, but wisely left him to cool off. He'd been cooling for an hour and was now thinking a little more rationally, but frustration still simmered inside him. Don couldn't believe Charlie thought so little of him, had so little respect, that he would purposely do what he had told him not to, just to prove he was right. Furthermore, if he wasn't right – if he succeeded in stirring things up with the Morans without enough proof, Don would be in the hot seat with Walsh again. Apparently, Charlie didn't care about that either.

Don had tried to raise Megan on the phone, but with no success. He tried Colby and David, with the same result. The most probable reason was they were engaged in some kind of field action, and couldn't answer their phones. The thought made him even more nervous. He hoped fervently if they were dealing with the Morans, they had enough evidence to make it stick.

He caught a movement at the door, and looked up to see his father, poking his head in, his eyebrows lifted. "Is it safe to come in, or will I get my head bitten off again?" he asked, and Don lifted a shoulder grudgingly.

"Come on in."

Alan stepped in, sank onto a chair, and leaned back, arms across his chest. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Don glowered. "There's nothing to talk about. I told Charlie yesterday he wasn't consulting for my office anymore, and he ignored me, and went digging around in a case anyway. He apparently thinks I'm too stupid to manage on my own."

Consternation and bewilderment appeared on Alan's face. "Not consulting for you anymore? Why?"

"It's not like I haven't thought about this before," Don said, a little defensively. "And I seem to recall you weren't too fond of the idea of his consulting, either."

"That was before I saw how much the two of you seemed to be getting out of it," Alan replied, reasonably. "Don't get me wrong – I still worry. I'd much prefer that both of you were librarians. The past few weeks, well…," he trailed off and sighed. "I can't have you boys do what I want however; I figured that out long ago. Until recently, the benefits seemed to be outweighing the risks."

"That's exactly what I thought – until the attack a few weeks ago, and then the kidnapping incident." Don fell silent for a moment, then continued. "Charlie just has this bad tendency to go off half-cocked – he gets all fired up about something, and it's all he can think about. Someone like that doesn't have any place in this line of work, Dad. You've got to be aware, pay attention."

"So don't let him go out in the field," Alan countered. "Frankly, that would make me happy too."

"I tried that, Dad, it doesn't work. He doesn't listen to me. I can't trust him to do what I tell him."

"I don't see how you can make that generalization, Donnie. So he didn't listen this last time – he wasn't even really consulting for you. And before that, well, he shouldn't have been talking with the reporter, it's true, but who would have thought it would make him a target? He knows better now. What I'm trying to say is these are fairly recent events, in a working relationship that goes back four years. It's not like this has happened before, as least not before the last few weeks."

"It has happened before," said Don, insistently; then stopped, looking guilty. His voice dropped to a mumble. "You just didn't know about it."

Alan looked at him suspiciously. "Didn't know about what?"

Don sighed. "You remember the sniper case? In fact, you even lectured me at the time to be careful with Charlie – that he'd do anything to impress me, to get my attention. Well, we didn't tell you about this, because we had the guy in custody, it was over, and, well – Charlie was nearly shot."

"What?"

"We had the guy cornered in a building – we just weren't sure exactly which one he was in yet. We had men going through them, and Charlie shows up with David. Didn't ask permission from me, and he let David think he'd gotten the okay to be there. He goes wandering around the plaza, and the sniper took a shot at him. I turned around, and there he is, he'd just been shot at, and he was still standing there like a deer in the headlights. I was too far away – I started running toward him, yelling at him to get down, and he just gives me this blank look – totally clueless. David tackled him and pushed him out of the way – just as the guy took another shot."

Alan stared at him. "Neither of you thought to tell me this?"

"It was over, Dad, and I thought he'd learned his lesson. He didn't. It's been four years and he still hasn't. Yesterday, I told him he was done, and he just ignored me – he spent all of last night and today digging into the Moran case. My agents aren't even working on that case – we were told to drop it."

Alan was silent for a moment. "So what's really driving your decision? Fear or anger? Are you afraid he'll get hurt, or are you mad because you can't control him?"

Don looked at him, with an odd mixture of misery and impatience. "Both."

"Aren't you being a little hard on him?"

Don stared. "Are you kidding? He gets away with a lot more than he should."

Alan's voice was mild. "Not really. Some of your agents have crossed the line – more than once – and you haven't kicked them off the team. Take Colby, for instance. Of course, it's lot easier to tell your little brother what to do, isn't it? You have to ask yourself if the fact that he's your brother is affecting your outlook."

"It sure affects his," Don retorted. "I think that's exactly why he won't listen – he views me as a brother, not a boss."

"I agree; your relationship can complicate things – both from your standpoint and his. The closer you become, the more emotionally invested you both are. It could very well get harder, not easier. When you started working together, you didn't know each other as well – you were a little more cautious, a little better behaved. 'Familiarity breeds contempt.' Not exactly contempt in this case, but you both are taking each other for granted a bit more – pushing the limits, because you've reached a point where you really care about each other. You take liberties, because you know, no matter what, at the end of the day you're brothers first, and you'll forgive. All families do that. It's why we treat complete strangers more politely than our own family members."

Don fell silent. He felt an inexplicable relief at his father's words, and he realized part of him had been worried, deep inside, that their recent arguments were a sign that his relationship with his brother had been unraveling. It was exactly the opposite - their new closeness had been generating a laxness that just didn't fit well in the office. He could feel some of the tension, the anger, begin to slip away, and his next words were quiet. "You sound like you don't want us to stop working together. You know how distracted he can get. Don't you worry about him?"

"I worry about both of you, all the time," said Alan gently. "I thought the same thing when he got his driver's license – he's so easily preoccupied by the intensity of his thoughts, I was afraid he wouldn't concentrate on the road. I couldn't very well tell him not get it, though, could I? He's an adult. The same applies here. If he wants to take the risk, I need to let him, just as I've let you."

He continued, speaking quietly. "I do respect your right to pick who you work with. You just need to be sure that you're making those decisions for the right reasons. You need to ask yourself if it isn't worth putting up with some conflict to have your brother as part of your team. It's really gone pretty well for four years. I know the attack and the kidnapping were frightening – but so was this – this attempt on your life. Are you going to quit your job because of it?"

"No, of course not."

"And Charlie doesn't want to quit either. You don't have the right to make that decision for him, Donnie, as much as you may want to. You have the power, because you're in charge, but you don't have the right." He smiled, and it warmed Don like the sun, like a benediction. "I have confidence in you boys – I always have. I know you can make this work, if you put your minds to it." The smile turned conspiratorial. "Of course, if you could get him to agree to no more field work, it wouldn't bother me at all. Now, I'm going to get some more coffee."

He rose and stepped out and Don sat silently, contemplating the conversation. He still had his doubts, but his father had put things into perspective. Maybe Alan and Megan were right, and he needed to give Charlie another shot. Charlie was like a puppy sometimes – he got a little too eager, a little too intense; a little too anxious to please. It was sometimes hard to rein in all of that enthusiasm, but really, it should be something they could work out. Maybe after all that had happened, he could get Charlie to limit his consulting to the office. His mind ran over their last conversation, and he winced, as he recalled his harsh words. Charlie, to his credit, had been upfront, had come to tell him the truth, and instead of appreciating that fact, Don had pretty much leveled him. He'd swatted the puppy on the nose, hard, and now he felt like a jerk.

He glanced at the phone. Maybe he should call him – although the conversation was probably better face-to-face. He was going to stay at Charlie's for a couple of days after he got out of the hospital. He'd talk to him tomorrow, he told himself, when he got home. First thing tomorrow.

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End Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all. Did someone order whumping?_

**Chapter 7**

He took the maid's car. One of Dillon's maids was a plain, rather dour girl, who owned a navy 1990 Buick Park Avenue sedan. It had once been a very nice car, but was outdated and worn, the navy paint faded, like old blue jeans. She'd probably gotten it cheap – a practical car for a practical girl. Sean's own car was back at his apartment and he felt instinctively it would be better not to drive it, or any of Dillon's stable of thoroughbred vehicles. A short time after he was sure the feds were gone, Sean had slunk out of the house, and pulled the girl's sedan up from the servant's entrance, and transferred his belongings from Dillon's trunk to the Park Avenue.

He'd taken two hits of meth, right off. He'd looked longingly at the rest of the stash, but he needed to keep a clear head. Too little and the physical symptoms were overwhelming, too much and he was high. With a double dose he could still feel a physical need, but at least he could think. And he needed to be able to think.

The first thing he did was to go to his dealer. Sarko was one of Lenny's people – he hadn't heard the news yet, and Sean didn't tell him his boss had just been picked up by the feds. He didn't want to scare the guy off before he could get what he needed. First on the list, several days' worth of meth. He walked with Sarko down the alley, to that week's back room – Sarko changed locations weekly.

"How much you need?" asked Sarko, pulling open the drawer of a beat up file cabinet. The room was dirty, dingy, lit by a bare bulb in the ceiling. Sarko plopped a bag on the scarred wood table between them. Sean told him, and the dealer began to count out hits.

Sarko sold not only drugs, but other items of questionable origin or purpose, and some of them were laid out on the table. Sean picked up a switchblade, trying it out; then asked casually. "You got anything to knock someone out with?"

Sarko grinned. "Girl not cooperating? I got roofies."

"This ain't about a girl," snarled Sean. His shoulder jumped in a spasm and he rolled his head. "I need to knock someone out for a little while."

Sarko looked at him warily; then retrieved a small bottle from a drawer, thinking to himself that the man looked like he was about to come unglued. "Chloroform," he said, handing him the bottle. "Oh, and I got this –," he turned and rummaged in the drawer, and produced a device that looked almost like Sean's electric razor. Sarko set it on the table. "It's a Taser. C2 - latest model."

Sean eyed it with interest. "Whaddya do – touch 'em with it?"

"Nah, you're thinkin' of a stun gun – those aren't nearly as powerful. This is the same thing the cops use - the sucker'll drop a 300 lb guy like that. In fact, you have to stand away from them a few feet, or it might arc over to you. You aim it and hit 'em for two or three seconds, and they go down – short-circuits their muscles for a minute or two. If you need 'em down longer than that, you hit 'em longer – but you need to be careful – too long a hit or too many hits can kill a guy." He looked as Sean curiously. "I got guns, too, serial numbers removed, and cell phones."

Sean considered a minute, then set the bottle in front of him, and eyed the Taser on the table. He put it next to the bottle and laid down the switchblade with them. "I'll take these – and a cell phone. Charge it to Lenny."

Sarko frowned. "You know Lenny doesn't want you chargin' to him. At least not the drugs." He stared at Sean. "What do you need this stuff for, anyway?"

Sean fixed a cold eye on him. "It's family business. You'll hear soon enough. And if you don't charge it, you'll be hearin' from Lenny."

Sarko shrugged. "Okay. I'm gonna tell him you told me to do it – it'll be your ass."

Sean grinned, and the expression sent a chill down Sarko's spine. "Lenny ain't gonna care," Sean said. "You can trust me on that."

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Don managed to get up for the first time at close to nine p.m. He was still a little woozy and unsteady on his feet, but he made it to the bathroom and back, successfully, and the trip made the bed he'd been itching to get out of infinitely more attractive. He ached all over – it wasn't just the bruised areas that were a problem; every muscle in his body was stiff. He still had a nasty headache, but it had improved tremendously, and he was due for pain medication soon. He was actually preparing himself for a decent night's sleep when his team showed up. Alan was already dozing in a chair and jerked awake at their entrance, and excused himself so they could talk.

"How're you feeling?" asked Colby.

"Like I was hit by a truck," said Don with a wry look. "Actually, a little better."

He scanned their faces. "You're here to tell me about the Moran case."

Megan looked at him quizzically. "Charlie talked to you, then?"

An expression flitted across Don's face that she couldn't identify. "Yeah," he said. "He told me he put together a report and gave it to you."

Megan smiled; a glint of triumph in her eyes. "We got 'em. Took down nearly two dozen meth houses – just where Charlie said they'd be."

Don felt a surge relief at her statement. Charlie did have enough evidence, then; his brother's instincts had been right. He stifled a grin at the thought – Walsh was going to have to eat his words. David's cell phone beeped and he excused himself, stepping aside, and she continued. "We arrested Dillon Moran and Lenny Angelo. They were both at Dillon's home office." She hesitated, wondering if she should tell Don about what they'd overheard.

Before she could make up her mind, Colby jumped in. "Yeah, we caught some of their conversation before we went in. They were talking to someone on the phone named Mick O'Reilly. He's apparently their computer guy, and he must have tapped in to Charlie's computer somehow – they knew Charlie had been on their system. They'd just found out - it was a good thing we picked them up when we did."

Don's face had gone pale. In an instant, he was second-guessing his position on whether or not he'd let Charlie consult again. "You're sure – that they just found out, I mean. They didn't have time to get the word out to anyone?"

Megan interceded, with a raised eyebrow at Colby. "LAPD's already picked O'Reilly up. And no, they didn't have time to get word out to anyone else."

Don felt a bit of relief at that, but he still was concerned; there was one person unaccounted for. "What about Sean Moran?"

"The judge wouldn't give us a warrant for him. We didn't have evidence he was connected to the meth ring."

David had snapped his phone shut, and had rejoined the group, his face grim. "But we do have evidence he's connected to the hit-and-run of a federal officer. That was LAPD. They found a truck earlier today at Maximum Enterprises that looked like it had been in a collision – they checked it out – results just came in. Paint samples on the front bumper matched Don's SUV, and guess whose fingerprints they found inside?"

"Sean Moran," breathed Colby.

Don's mind raced, as he processed the implications of that. "What is Maximum Enterprises?"

"A construction company, part of Angelo's operations," said Megan, frowning. "They ordered equipment for the meth labs there, and hid the orders among legitimate ones. Charlie told us to look there for the truck that hit you." She looked at Colby and David. "We need to raise Judge Wilson, and get him a revised arrest warrant for Sean Moran."

She turned her gaze on Don. "I was going to pull your protection, but in light of this, I'm keeping your detail on until we pick Sean up. I'll get someone on Charlie, too. Do you know where he is?"

Don's throat tightened a bit. "No. He left here at around six. He looked pretty tired – maybe he's at home."

Megan looked at him. "Do you want to call him?"

Don looked abashed. "Maybe you'd better. I'm not sure he'd pick up my call right now."

Megan raised a questioning eyebrow, but Don didn't offer anything further. "Okay," she said, "we'd better get on this. David, you head over to Charlie's until I can get someone assigned. Colby, you head back to the office and get Sean's photo over to LAPD, and tell them to prepare an APB, the warrant's coming. I'll hook up with Judge Wilson and get the warrant processed." She looked at Don. "Don't worry – we'll cover this." She smiled reassuringly. "It's almost over."

Don nodded, trying to calm his flipping gut. He was being paranoid, he told himself. Charlie was probably fine. He managed to keep his hands still until they left the room, and as soon as they were gone, he reached for the phone and dialed Charlie's cell phone. Maybe Charlie wouldn't pick up, but he was at least going to try.

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Charlie had jumped in the Prius after leaving the hospital, too upset even to think about where he was going – he just drove. The car had been repaired for the second time in weeks, but it still smelled like smoke. The odor hung in the air like an ugly reminder as he traveled. Up into the hills, then down again, through areas he'd never been before. He finally ended up on Colorado Boulevard, and came to a stop at Santa Monica Pier. There, he parked and strolled aimlessly for a while. The sun had set, and a few fishermen lingered on the end of the pier, trying their luck after dark, braving the stiff breeze. Charlie stood and watched them for a bit, hands in his pockets, and then turned and trudged down the nearly deserted beach. He stopped after a while, and planted his feet in the sand, staring out at the dark water, whipped into turmoil by the wind.

He'd known when he compiled the report he would probably incur Don's wrath. He had done it anyway – if he wanted the Morans taken into custody, he really didn't have a choice, and knowing that, he'd probably make the same decision all over again, if he had to. It just didn't seem fair that he was in the position to begin with – why was he faced with such a choice? His brother's safety vs. their relationship – a relationship that now seemed to be disintegrating. Why did he have to give one up to get the other? And did Don really think he consulted for the prestige of it – to try to appear superior?

Granted, he hated to be wrong, and there were times that being ordered around rankled and he'd complained – but surely he hadn't given the impression he was trying to show Don up. He admitted he pushed it sometimes, especially when Don blew off a proposal that Charlie knew was the right direction, but he always accepted Don's final call, and Charlie never asked for credit at the end of the case. It was enough that it was solved successfully. It was enough to get that look of gratitude from his brother, the pat on the shoulder, the "Nice job, Charlie." Like an obedient puppy. Now that he was no longer consulting for Don, he'd probably never experience that again. It had been the closest thing to acceptance he'd ever gotten from his brother, and now it was gone.

He shook himself. It shouldn't matter. He was a leader in his field, sought after by the private and public sectors alike. He spent his days doing what he loved, immersed in numbers. He had a comfortable home, a beautiful and intelligent girlfriend, and their relationship was growing stronger every day. He shouldn't need his brother's approval and acceptance, a real relationship with him, to vindicate who he was. It shouldn't matter. But, God, it did.

A gust of wind, the incessant Santa Ana, hit him, pelting him with a blast of sand. It was October, and starting to get cool at night; and it was always nearly ten degrees cooler out on the pier. He shivered, and sighed, and started trudging toward his car. The Santa Ana winds were increasing again, and based on the horrific experience the week before, they did nothing but blow ill luck his way.

He got home shortly after nine, dead tired, and none too soon; he'd been nodding at the wheel. He got out of the car in a daze, and was halfway to the house before he picked up the faint ring of his cell phone, still in the car. He plodded back for it, sand swishing in his shoes. The ringing had stopped by the time he got there, and he hit the button for voicemail. Don's voice came on.

"_Hey, Buddy. I, uh – well, just give me a call when you get a chance._"

_Hey Buddy_? Just a few hours ago, his brother had been yelling at him to get out. Charlie sighed. It was just another way in which they were different; Don blew up and got over it quickly, and Charlie brooded. Whatever it was, it could wait until morning. He hadn't the patience or the strength for another draining conversation this evening. Or worse yet, another argument.

He slipped his shoes off at the front door and shook them out before going in. The house phone was ringing – probably Don, trying the home number. Charlie treaded carefully forward through the dark house to turn on a lamp. The warm glow lightened the room, and he sat wearily down on the sofa, slipping off his jacket, removing sandy socks, and inspecting his injured foot. He was due to get the stitches out the next day. Probably a good thing. It would be an excuse to get out of the house when Don came home.

His cell phone rang again and he groaned, but glanced at it anyway, and was surprised to see Megan's number come up. He flipped it open. "Yeah, Megan."

"_Charlie – hi. Where are you?_"

"At home. I just got here."

"_Everything okay? Are you in for the night?"_

How should he answer that? '_Oh, it's been a lovely night. Got blasted by my brother. How about you?' _Instead, he said, "Yeah. Everything's fine. And yes, I'm not going anywhere else."

"_Okay. Look, we picked up Dillon Moran and Lenny Angelo, and raided the meth labs. It was a clean sweep – we got everyone but Sean Moran. The judge wouldn't give us a warrant for him at the time, but I'm on my way to get one now – we found the truck that hit Don, and Sean's fingerprints were in it – LAPD just called us. Just to be safe, I'm going to put someone on your house until we pick him up. David's coming – he should get there in about twenty minutes, and when I can line up an officer, I'll have them take over."_

Charlie rubbed his face with a resigned expression. "Okay. Twenty minutes. Is he coming in?"

"_No, he doesn't have to unless you want him to. I was just going to have him sit in his car until LAPD got a man over there, and they'd trade off without bothering you_."

"No, that's good," said Charlie with relief. He didn't feel like dealing with people tonight. "I was going straight to bed. Have him tell the LAPD officer to park in the street – I'm not sure if my dad will need to get into the driveway later."

"_Okay, that's fine. I don't think you need to worry, but lock the doors before you go up. And Charlie – thanks for all your help today. We never would have gotten them without you._"

"Yeah, sure, no problem." At least someone was grateful.

He disconnected and shut the phone with a snap, and the faintest noise behind him made him whip his head around to look. Nothing. Megan had him imagining things. He turned back around with a rueful grin and picked up his socks, preparing to stand, when suddenly the light went out. His head snapped up, and he sat still, listening for a split second. Nothing. He shook his head in the darkness; amused at his own paranoia. The bulb had probably burned out, he told himself. He'd change it in the morning. There was a faint light streaming through the windows from the streetlight outside, enough so that he could see his way to the switch that illuminated the stairs.

He stood; socks in hand, and took a tentative step toward the stairs. He heard a strange buzzing sound, and the jolt hit him before he could take another step.

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End Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"Haauuh!" The involuntary cry of pain was torn from Charlie's throat. He reeled in shock for a split second, his mind trying to process the strange, painful force that gripped him. His legs lost their purchase on the floor, and he collapsed on his back, his limbs worthless, twitching. The sensation had stopped, but it left him breathless, feebly trying to get his body to respond to the signals his mind was giving it. He was vaguely aware of footsteps, and a figure bending over him, then a strange chemical smell.

His limbs were starting to obey his commands and he pushed at his attacker awkwardly; then with increasing purpose as the feeling returned in his arms. He heard swearing, and to his surprise the man backed off. Charlie could see his figure in the dim light streaming through the window, and he rolled onto his side, trying to scramble to his feet, when the surge of electricity hit him again.

He collapsed, writhing, crying out with pain. It was longer this time, and stunned him into dazed, twitching submission. The man approached again, kneeling, and this time Charlie could do nothing – nothing to stop him from putting the rag over his face, nothing to keep from inhaling.

"Good night, Professor." The voice that came out of the darkness sounded eerily like Tommy Moran. It was the last thing Charlie remembered.

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Sean had found the house and jimmied open a window, waiting for over an hour before Eppes had shown up. He'd hidden in the living room behind the recliner, and after Eppes had come in, he made his way closer, crouching stealthily behind the sofa as Eppes talked on the phone. He had managed to slither toward the coffee table, and as soon as Eppes had hung up, Sean pulled on the cord quietly until the plug disconnected, plunging the room in darkness. He could just make out Eppes' form in the dim light, and when he stood, Sean zapped him.

He had to do it twice – apparently he hadn't hit him long enough the first time. The second time though, he nailed him, and it was an easy matter to apply the chloroform. He flipped the unconscious professor on his stomach and used plastic zip ties to bind his hands behind his back and his feet together, then plastered a swatch of duct tape across his mouth. Then he ran for his car.

He'd parked on the street, down a house or two, and he jumped into it, pulled it up, and backed into the driveway, looking around the dark deserted street as he got out. He popped the trunk and pushed his camera equipment and his stash of food and meth out of the way, and dashed back into the house. He knew from Eppes' phone conversation that he didn't have much time. Dragging the unconscious man unceremoniously, he stumbled out the back door, got him to the car, and heaved his body into the trunk, slamming it shut. He ran back and shut the back door, remembering Eppes' phone conversation, and the professor's statement he was going to bed. With any luck, if everything looked normal, whoever was coming to visit Eppes would stay outside. It might be morning before anyone realized he was gone. Sean raced to the car and flung himself inside, pulling out of the driveway and down the street.

He didn't relax until he was four blocks away. No one had entered the street before he left it, no one was following. He'd pulled off the first part, the most important part. He popped another hit of meth, shaking with the thrill of it, the adrenaline, and threw back his head and laughed. It was perfect, it was perfect. His expression sobered, and rage clouded his face in a sudden manic shift of emotions. The Eppes brothers would know what he and Tommy had gone through before this was over, before both of them died. It would be glorious justice, a last tribute to Tommy, and retribution for Dillon. He grinned, his crazed eyes glinting in the reflected headlights.

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Charlie came to slowly, his mind foggy, consumed by the thought he was dreaming again, that he was reliving his nightmare about the grave. He was tied at the bottom of the pit, and they were getting ready to bury him. He closed his eyes tightly, waiting for the horrid sensation of dirt hitting his body, but when it didn't come, he opened them, confused. Slowly the fog cleared; he felt hard concrete under his body, took in the boxes around him, the corrugated metal walls. He was cold, dressed only in a T-shirt and jeans, and he _was_ bound, he realized, that part was real. He felt a thrill of fear run through him at the realization, along with a wave of dizziness and a surge of nausea.

He heard footsteps and then a figure appeared in front of him, stripping the duct tape roughly from his face. The man looked like Tommy, only with lighter hair, and the knowledge hit Charlie like a slap. Sean Moran. His gut clenched with panic at the thought, nearly stopping his breath, and he was only vaguely aware of Moran moving to his ankles, and cutting the zip ties. The next thing he knew, he was been hauled to his feet – they were bare, and he frowned in stuporous confusion. Where were his shoes?

He tried to ponder that question, but it slipped away as they began to move, Charlie staggering badly, unable to achieve equilibrium with his hands tied behind his back. It took all of his concentration to remain upright, and Moran half-carried him over to the wall and leaned him against it.

"Stand there," commanded Moran. "Don't move."

There was a bright light in Charlie's eyes, and he winced and looked away, his head drooping, his eyes wandering, trying to get a grip on where he was, what was happening.

His head jerked back toward the light again as Sean began talking, and it took a moment for him to realize there was no one else there; Sean was speaking to a camera. The light was attached to it, and Sean was silhouetted against the brightness, a dark figure moving with manic energy.

Sean was pointing at the camera angrily, and Charlie realized with a shock the man was holding a pistol, waving it as he ranted. "Take a look, agent. Take a good look. You took my brother, and I'm gonna take yours. It's goin' down exactly the same way – _exactly_, you understand? Tommy sat for three days with a slug in his shoulder, bleedin', sick, sufferin', and then at the end, you pigs shot him in the chest. I had to sit and wait and watch, and there was nuthin' I could do about it. I watched my brother suffer for three days, and then I watched him die! Do you know how that _feels_?!!"

His voice had risen to a scream, and he got control with an effort. His eyes were mad; spittle was running down his face. "Well, you're gonna know, agent, you're gonna know." He strode toward Charlie, raising the pistol toward Charlie's chest, and Charlie stared at it in dazed horror. Just before it went off, he closed his eyes.

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Alan jerked awake with a grunt. He sat there for a moment in the dark hospital room, trying to figure out what had woken him. He'd been dreaming – a nightmare, in fact, in which Megan had come to him to tell him that his sons were dead. His heart was pounding, and when he rubbed his face he realized it was wet with tears. Charlie wasn't the only one who had been dealing with bad dreams, after all that had happened in the last few weeks.

Alan shook himself free of the horror with a bit of a groan, and he heard the soft clatter of a cart as it went by in the hall. He should have known better than to try to sleep at the hospital, but by the time he'd thought about going home, it was late, and he was too tired to contemplate the drive. He'd decided instead just to sleep there with Don, and settled himself in the recliner. Don was getting released first thing in the morning, and Alan needed to be there early, anyway. He glanced at his oldest and caught a reassuring glimpse of Don's profile, then shifted in the recliner a bit, and closed his eyes again.

Don heard his father stir, his heart pounding. He'd woken at nearly the same time, starting awake in a panic, but by what he didn't know. The noise in the hall, maybe. He was just edgy, he decided, after the tension of the past few weeks. He found himself looking forward to the morning, to daylight, to the comfort of Charlie's house. Charlie would be there, and they could talk. He suddenly wanted more than anything to resolve the bad feelings between them, simply to be with his brother again. He missed the comfortable rapport they'd begun to experience, the feeling that maybe they were getting to a point where they were closer. They still didn't quite understand each other, but if the trust, the concern for each other was there, they could work through that, somehow. He'd had enough of arguing and distance – he missed his brother. A small smile crept to his lips at the thought of seeing him in the morning, and he drifted off to sleep again.

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The explosion of pain obliterated all thought, all strength. He may have cried out; he wasn't even sure. Charlie slid slowly down the wall to a sitting position, his face contorted, too consumed with agony to breathe. Dimly he could hear Sean speaking to the camera again, and looked down dazedly for the wound, realizing as he did so that the pain was in his left shoulder, not his chest. It was so fierce, so shocking, that at first he hadn't been able to tell where it was coming from. He could see the blood seeping through his T-shirt at the shoulder, and in the midst of the pain, he heard Sean speaking to the camera again, his voice piercing, tinged with madness.

"Here's what's gonna happen, Eppes. He's gonna sit there, just like Tommy, for three days with a slug in his shoulder, and then you're gonna come for him – alone. You got that? You come by yourself, unarmed – in three days, not before, and not after. If I see anyone else, I'll plug your brother before we get a chance to talk. Don't screw it up."

Sean darted toward the camera and shut it off. He had brought in his equipment for burning a disk, and he busied himself with the task, tossing down another hit of meth, head jerking and twitching, ignoring the bleeding man against the wall until he was finished. It was near midnight, and he still had a lot of work to do. He shoved the disc in his coat pocket and strode over to Charlie, squatting in front of him as he fished out duct tape. The professor's eyes were glazed, stuporous with pain, and he didn't resist as Sean put a strip of tape over his mouth; and a zip tie around his ankles again. Sean grinned in his face, horrible insanity dancing in his eyes, amplified by the high. "You need to stay here for a while. I'll come back and get you, and then we'll go for a ride. But first, I need to go get us a fireman," he rasped, and spittle sprayed from his lips as he laughed. He rose and strode away, still laughing, the demonic sound echoing from the rafters.

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End Chapter 8


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: To those of you who have taken the time to review, thank you so much - your reviews are the writer's reward. To those who haven't yet, I'd love to hear from you. Let me know what you think._

**Chapter 9**

Don was up at six, released by eight a.m., and he and Alan were at Charlie's less than a half-hour later. They were followed by Megan and David from the hospital, and Colby met them at the house. He watched as Don moved gingerly up the walk, supported by Alan, with Megan walking slowly behind. David was striding over to the patrol car sitting in front of the house, and Colby joined him there, as David asked, "Everything okay?

The officer nodded at them. "I got here at six a.m. It's been quiet – nothing happened on night watch either. Are you guys gonna be here for a few minutes? I'd like to make a coffee run."

David nodded. "Yeah, we'll be here for a little bit. Go ahead."

He nodded a greeting at Colby as they crossed the lawn, and Colby nodded back. "Mornin'. You talk to Charlie last night?"

David glanced at him. "Nah, Megan did, though. She told me he said he was going to bed; and the house was dark when I got here, so I didn't go in. He didn't show up at the hospital this morning – he might still be sleeping. I guess he was up all of the night before, working on the case files."

"We hear anything on Sean Moran?"

David shook his head. "Megan checked in with LAPD this morning before we got to the hospital. He's not at his apartment or at Dillon's house, and his car is sitting at his apartment. There's a bulletin out for him, but if he's holed up somewhere, it's not going to do us a lot of good."

They let themselves in through the front door, which had been left open for them by Alan, in time to see Don sink carefully onto the seat of the recliner with a grunt of pain. He leaned back in the chair with a wince. "I think every muscle I've got is sore," he said, trying for a grin, and achieving only a grimace.

Alan moved toward the kitchen, lifting Charlie's jacket from the sofa, and stooping to scoop up his scattered socks from the floor. "Charlie," he muttered to himself, in an admonishing tone. "He should know better than to leave his clothes lying around." He tossed an, "I'll make some coffee," over his shoulder, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Don glanced toward the stairs. He'd been a little disappointed that Charlie hadn't come to the hospital that morning. No one had asked him to, but Don was hoping that maybe he'd show up. The fact that he hadn't might mean he was still smarting, maybe angry over their argument the day before, and Don fervently hoped not. It would make talking things over more difficult. Charlie could be a professional brooder when he put his mind to it, sometimes sulking for days. If his brother was in that kind of mood, they might not be talking for a while. When he'd gotten here and realized that Charlie must still be sleeping, he was relieved. Sleeping was better than brooding.

Megan sank onto the sofa across from him. She looked tired herself. This case had been hard on all of them. She rubbed her forehead; then looked up at Colby as something suddenly occurred to her. "Colby, I forgot to tell you when I asked you to take Charlie's statement the other day. He said to let you know he could use another 'parking lot' discussion when you get the chance. Did he mention it to you?"

Colby grinned, looking pleased. "Oh, yeah, he did. We had one while I took his statement."

Don looked puzzled. "'Parking lot discussion?'"

They both looked at him, and Colby rubbed the back of his head, slightly embarrassed. "Oh, it was nothing – I talked Charlie through what happened to him after the attack by Taylor's men during the Park's case – he just needed to get it off his chest, that's all."

Don realized he was staring with his mouth open, and he tried to cover it. "Oh, yeah, okay. That's good." He tried to look nonchalant, but the fact was, the idea stung. Charlie was going to one of his agents to talk about what was bothering him? It might even have been a little more understandable if it had been Megan; she had the training in psychology. But Colby?

He remembered his brother after the attack a few weeks ago, pale and shaken in the flashing lights of the patrol cars and FBI vehicles. Charlie had admitted he'd seen his attackers following him earlier, and he hadn't gone to Don because Don had been so angry with him after the television interview. He'd told Charlie then he could come to him with anything – and Charlie still hadn't. He'd confided in Colby instead.

'_And no wonder,_' Don thought; disgusted with himself. '_All you do is snap at him lately – last night was no exception._' He suddenly couldn't wait for the discussion he planned to have with Charlie. He'd set things right – he'd be patient, understanding – he'd make Charlie realize he could confide in him. No more arguments. They'd have the kind of talk brothers should have. He pulled himself out of his thoughts as he realized that Megan was speaking.

"I hate to say this," she was saying, "but we might have to keep a detail on you and Charlie for a while. Eventually, I'd guess Sean Moran will come out of the woodwork, but depending on how much meth he's got, it might not be soon. We'll lean on Dillon and Angelo and see if they know where he hangs out, and we'll start talking to some of Lenny's acquaintances. Wouldn't surprise me if we get more arrest warrants on some of their guys."

Don considered that, and gave her a nod. "You could work on playing Dillon and Lenny off each other – maybe get one of them to give it up."

Megan's cell phone rang, and she nodded as she answered it. "Reeves. Okay, yeah, thanks, Gary – that's good. Keep me posted." She snapped the phone shut. "That was Lieutenant Walker. One of Dillon Moran's household employees reported their car was stolen last night – from Dillon's property. The officer on the night shift wasn't following this case and didn't make the connection, but Walker saw it this morning. There's a good chance Sean took it. They've got an APB out for the car – it's a 1990 dark blue Park Avenue."

Alan came in with a tray of cups and set it on the coffee table. "Coffee's almost ready," he said, as a knock came at the front door. He strode over to answer it, but David stopped him.

"I'll get it," he said, and stepped in front of Alan and opened the door.

The boy on the front step gazed at him, eyes wide with surprise. He looked about seven, and had a book bag slung over his shoulder. "Um- ," he said, uncertainly, and Alan stepped forward.

"That's the neighbor boy, from down the street. He's our paperboy," he murmured. "Hi, Cameron," he said, with a smile, moving in front of David.

Cameron looked relieved. "Hi, Mr. Eppes. A guy said I should give you this, and you should give it to your son Don as soon as you see him." The words were spoken carefully, as if he'd rehearsed them, and he held out a DVD in an unmarked case.

Alan accepted it kindly, but his brow wrinkled with confusion. "Don's right here. Who is this from, son?"

Megan had moved up behind them, frowning. Cameron looked up at them, uncertainly. "I don't know; it was a guy in a car." He flushed. "My friend Billy said I shouldn't talk to him, but the guy said he knew you. He said he knew he was on the right street, but he didn't know which house it was. I told him I could take it, and he gave me five dollars." At his words, Colby stepped past him out the door, and scanned the street from one end to the other.

Megan exchanged a concerned glance with Colby and David, and knelt and put her eyes on the boy's level. "Hi Cameron; I'm Megan. Can you tell us what color the car was?"

"Tan. With shiny stuff in it." said Cameron confidently. Colby stepped back in, shaking his head as he caught their eyes.

"Not dark blue?"

He shook his head. "No, tan. Kind of goldish-tan." The agents traded a confused look. "The guy had tan hair, too, a little bit long." He glanced over his shoulder. "I have to go; I'm going to miss the bus."

Megan rose and murmured to Alan. "Do you know where Cameron lives, if we need to talk to him later?"

Alan nodded, and stared at her. "What is this?"

"I'm not sure yet," she said quietly. "Okay, Cameron, you can go," she said more loudly, and then she murmured to Colby, "Step outside again and make sure he gets on the bus okay. Where did that officer go?"

David spoke up as Colby stepped out and closed the door. "I told him he could make a coffee run while we were here."

Megan took the disk from Alan, and turned it over, inspecting it, then flipped the case open, pulling out a slip of paper. "_Don Eppes_," it read. "_Private_."

She crossed the room, frowning, and handed the note and the disk to Don. "Were you expecting a disk from someone?"

His forehead puckered as he looked at the note. "No."

Colby had stepped back in, and joined the group clustering around Don. "He got on the bus okay. No sign of the car. It sounded like a physical description of Moran, but the car color wasn't right."

Don spoke, decisively. "Dad, grab Charlie's laptop for me. I need to see what's on this."

Alan made for the laptop, still sitting on the dining room table. "Do you know his password?"

"I don't think I need it to run this," said Don. Alan handed him the laptop, and he opened it. A login screen appeared. "Aw crap, yeah, I do. Dad, can you get him up?"

David strode toward the door. "Don't bother – I've got mine in my car."

He returned a moment later, pulling the computer from its case as he crossed the room. Colby murmured as he passed. "Didn't know you were such a tecchie. Travelin' around with your personal laptop – you're starting to sound like the CalSci crowd."

He grinned, and David shot him a grin back as he opened the computer and tapped at it with one hand, logging in. "Shut up."

Megan and Don were smiling at the exchange, but their expressions turned sober as Don opened the case. He paused. "According to the note, I should look at this myself."

Alan turned and headed for the stairs. "I'll let you FBI types work that out. I'm going to get our sleeping genius up, and get a shower. The coffee's ready – it's in the kitchen."

Megan looked at Don as he inserted the disk. "If that was Moran or someone he sent; we're going to need to know anyway."

Don nodded and hit play. "I don't have anything…" He stopped, and his face froze in shock. "Oh my God," he whispered.

The other agents exchanged a look of consternation and moved behind him so they could see, just as Alan came down the stairs, with a bewildered expression on his face. "Wasn't Charlie's car outside? He wasn't upstairs."

He stared in confusion at their shocked expressions. He could hear a tinny voice coming from the computer, but the volume was set too low for him to hear the words from across the room. "What is it?" he asked, his heart beginning to thump.

They didn't answer and he craned to hear as he started to approach them, but he still couldn't make out the words. Even so, when they flinched, he knew why. He could hear the sound of the gunshot just fine.

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End Chapter 9


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Charlie lay there until the sun was nearly up. He had managed to get from his slumped sitting position against the wall to one lying on the floor on his side, although he had passed out during the process. His shoulder wound was excruciating. He was certain it was much worse than Tommy's, which had been a flesh wound in the upper arm. Charlie's injury was closer to the actual shoulder; judging from where the hole was and from the fact that he could feel unbearable pressure against the outside of the shoulder joint. Whether that pressure was from the bullet, or from swelling, he couldn't tell – all he knew was that it was generating almost intolerable agony. As he slid from the wall into a prone position, the movement sent a wave of pain through his shoulder so intense that he blacked out, for how long; he had no idea.

When he woke, it was to aching, throbbing. He lay as still as possible, trying not to exacerbate the pain. His T-shirt felt wet and sticky at the shoulder and on his chest, and he could sense a small pool of blood collecting on the floor next to him. The bleeding was steady, but at least the wound wasn't gushing. He wondered how long he would lie there. Sean had seemed crazed, and Charlie didn't know if the man had sufficient faculties to come back for him. Maybe he'd gone off on some new insane venture with no intention of returning. Although, from the planning that had gone into this, Charlie feared the man still had enough presence of mind to carry out whatever it was he had started.

He knew for certain at dawn. He heard the sound of a dock door opening, and a light-colored sedan was backed in. It looked tan or light gold in the dimness, and Charlie's heart sank as he saw Sean emerge from the driver's seat. He stepped around to open the trunk, and wrestled with something inside, pulling until he had a long coat free. It was a firefighter's coat – a long tan one like the firefighters had worn at the Lake Arrowhead fire. Charlie's gut lurched as an arm, pulled free from the garment, flopped lifelessly over the edge of the trunk, and Sean flipped the appendage nonchalantly back inside and donned the coat, which had what looked like a small hole in the back of it. Charlie realized with growing dread that Sean was apparently trying to recreate his brother's last days – down to the sickening detail of killing another firefighter, just to set the stage.

His terror grew as Sean approached him with a smile, the long coat flopping as he walked. "Time to go," he said cheerfully, and his head jerked. He grasped Charlie under the arms, and Charlie went rigid as a scream burst from him, muffled by the tape. Sean laid him back down again, and stood for a moment, considering. "We can't have you yellin,' he said.

He fumbled in his jacket under the coat, and produced a rag and a small bottle, uncapping it and pouring a small amount into the cloth. He recapped the bottle and squatted, and Charlie tried to move away, but the attempt was feeble; the pain made his head swim. What was left of his consciousness faded as the tape on his mouth was removed, and the cloth was pressed firmly over his face.

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Sean had cruised the streets for over two hours that morning, waiting for an opportunity to deliver the disk. He'd planned on just leaving it in the Eppes' mailbox, but he could hardly approach the house with the officer sitting outside. His mind didn't seem to be working quite right; it was hard to concentrate, but he was aware of the fact that he couldn't afford to be stopped with two bodies in the trunk, one of them dead.

He was by then in the firefighter's car. He'd driven up toward Lake Arrowhead during the night, intent on finding a fireman, and he'd gotten lucky just outside Arrowhead Farms. Fortunately for Sean, the re-strengthened Santa Ana winds had given new life to the Lake Arrowhead fire, and many firefighters had been redeployed to the area. One of the men was coming off a shift, and had stopped at a convenience store. Sean had noticed him; the man was still wearing his coat and boots, and Sean had followed him to his apartment complex. The firefighter was clueless; he'd parked near some shrubs that conveniently blocked the view from most of the three-story apartment buildings. Sean had shothim in the back as he got out of his car, just as Tommy had done. Tommy had been right, he discovered – killing someone was a rush. Sean didn't give himself time to savor the sense of power however; even though it was night and the parking lot was empty, the gunshot was loud, and he knew he couldn't linger. He stuffed the man hastily in the trunk ofhis owntan Ford Taurus and took off, leaving the blue Park Avenue in the lot. By dawn, he was back at the warehouse. The only thing to do yet was to give his demands to Eppes, and then to go and wait.

To someone sane, his actions would have made no sense, but Sean was too far gone to realize it. To him, these were necessary steps – everything had to be the same as with Tommy- the recreation needed to be as accurate as possible. Eppes would know exactly what Sean had gone through – the torture of watching his younger brother's suffering and death, the shock of watching him pitch into the grave, one dead body on another. And then Eppes would die himself. Sean grinned to himself, and licked his lips. He would love to see the look on Eppes' face when he saw what was on the disk.

That brought him back to his current task – getting Eppes the disk. He had meandered around back to the Eppes' neighborhood again, and as he cruised slowly past the end of the street, he saw agents walking away from the patrol car and across the lawn of the house, and then he watched the patrol car pull away from the curb. Sean circled around the next block, and by the time he got back the patrol car was gone. He could still see the agents' vehicles parked outside, and down the street, two young boys standing on the sidewalk, waiting for a school bus. In his boldest move yet, he turned down the street toward the boys, in plain sight of the house full of agents.

Moments later, the disk delivered to the Eppes' paperboy, he got on the exit ramp for Highway 210, grinning and talking to himself, his head jerking.

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Don let out a shaky breath, his eyes still glued to the laptop screen, and Colby stepped forward to intercept Alan. "I don't think you should see this," he said, quietly but firmly, and steered Alan toward the kitchen.

Alan shook off his arm, protesting. "What is this? If this has to do with Charlie, I have a right to know what's going on!"

Megan was frowning, trying to concentrate on the rest of Sean Moran's diatribe. He was screaming, pointing his finger; his hand almost right up in the camera lens, making it look disproportionately large. As he moved, they caught glimpses of Charlie in the background, slumped against the wall. At Alan's protest, she glanced at Don. He looked stunned, and his father's words had gone completely unnoticed. She held up her hand and looked at Alan, and thelook in her eyes stopped him cold. "Alan, please. Give us a chance to figure out what's going on here. Wait in the kitchen – we'll talk to you in a minute."

His heart had started an uncomfortable tattoo at her words, and the look in her eyes was one he'd never seen before. It made him realize there was a side to her – to all of them – that he'd never experienced; there was a hardness to them, a core like tempered steel; that they needed to do the work they did. Her response unnerved him, and he allowed Colby to steer him into the kitchen. At that point, Colby's arm was needed less for guidance than it was for support; and Alan sat heavily in a kitchen chair and put his face in his hands. He knew; whatever it was, it wasn't good – the look on Don's face – on all of their faces had told him that. The door closed behind Colby, and Alan sat, terrified. How could this be happening again?

Colby returned to the group as Don raised stunned eyes to Megan and David. "What happened? I thought you said he was here – he was going to bed…" he broke off and raised a shaking hand to his forehead, and drew it over his face.

David looked ill, and when he spoke, his voice was a rasp. "I got here – the house was dark and his car was in the driveway. He'd just spoken to Megan minutes before – I just assumed he was in bed. I didn't want to disturb him – I should have come in and checked things out."

Megan was frowning, but her voice was sympathetic. "We don't know that's when it happened. It could have happened later."

David shook his head, despair in his eyes. "The officer outside said everything was quiet, all night. If it didn't happen before surveillance got here, how would Moran have gotten him out of here? He had to have had some kind of vehicle." He fell silent, staring at the floor, and Colby felt a twinge of sympathy at the look on his face.

Don hit play again with an unsteady hand, and Megan murmured, "Don, maybe you should just let us do this."

"No!" he replied tersely, waving her off, and she fell silent as they listened again, eyes intent on the picture.

"It looks like a warehouse of some kind," offered Colby.

Megan studied Moran. "He's unhinged – it looks like methamphetamine psychosis. The twitching, the jerking - heavy use can create a psychotic response in the user. They often exhibit paranoia, uncontrollable rage, aggression. He's not thinking rationally. That may play to our advantage; he may engage in higher risk behaviors because of that and expose himself, make a mistake. Of course, it may also make his actions hard to predict."

"Dropping that disk off right on this street was sure higher risk behavior," muttered Colby.

The gunshot came, and all of them winced again but Don, who gripped the arm of the chair tightly, his eyes glued to the screen. "His shoulder," he said; his voice husky with emotion. "Moran said it was his shoulder, and it looks like that's where the bullet hit. I was afraid for a minute it was his chest." He swallowed and took an unsteady breath.

David had managed to tear his eyes from the floor and was studying the screen, as well. "Why wouldn't Moran disguise himself? This video incriminates him."

Megan's voice was heavy. "He doesn't care anymore. His brother, his source of cash, is in prison, and with no cash, there is no drug supply. To a heavy user like him, it probably seems like the end of the world. He's going out, and he wants revenge before he goes."

The video ended again, the screen went blank, and the room went silent. "We need to find them," said Don in a shaky voice. "We need to find them."

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Charlie woke again hours later, although he had no idea what time it was. In fact, he wasn't sure he was even awake, because it appeared he was having a nightmare. That was the only the explanation, the only reason why the room would look so eerily familiar. He was dreaming he was back at the construction company with Tommy and Jazz, bound, lying on the floor. The dead firefighter lay near him, staring sightlessly. Soon Jazz would come for the dead man and bury him, and Charlie would be next. He was dreaming, but if he was asleep, why did his shoulder hurt so badly? His mind, nearly incapacitated by pain, foggy from the chloroform, churned in confusion, trying desperately to discern what was reality. He prayed it was a dream, but as the man came and squatted near him, peering at him, he knew better – it wasn't Tommy; it wasn't a dream. His skin crawled, as he gazed into Sean's mad eyes.

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End Chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Sean grinned in Charlie's face, showing a fresh gap in his diseased gums. His breath was foul; methamphetamine decreased saliva production, and the resulting oral environment created loads of bacteria, which in turn attacked the teeth and gums. Charlie could feel nausea rising at the sight and the smell, but that sensation was quickly overpowered by terror, as he watched Sean snap open a lethal-looking switchblade. He tensed as Sean moved behind him, but his terror degenerated into mere heart-pounding fear, as he felt Sean cut through the zip tie around his wrists. He was lying on his good arm, and he couldn't move the injured one very well, so he lay as he was until Sean grabbed him underneath the shoulders. He cried outbetweeen gritted teethat the pressure in his shoulder, and his head swam, but he maintained consciousness this time, and found himself in a semblance of a sitting position, propped against the wall.

He fought against the pain, breathing heavily; beads of cold sweat on his brow, as he watched Sean cut clean shop towels into strips. They were in the main room of the office on the floor next to the desk, and Sean was kneeling next to him.

"These are what Tommy had on his shoulder, when they brought him in," said Sean conversationally. "When they gave us his belongings, these were with his clothes."

He moved forward on his knees, and worked a strip under Charlie's arm, and wrapped it around his shoulder. Charlie groaned as Sean tightened the strip, applied pressure, and tied it off, and bit his lip to hold in the next cry as Sean put on another one. By the time his shoulder was bound, he was seeing black spots in front of his eyes, and he leaned weakly against the wall. He still had a zip tie around his ankles, and Sean put one around his wrists again, but this time left Charlie's hands in front of him. The tie bit into the fragile healing skin on his wrists, but it was hardly noticeable, compared to the agony in his shoulder.

Sean seemed to be in a good mood, and was almost vibrating with energy. He was high as kite, Charlie realized. The man not only was insane, he was doped up on meth, and Charlie suspected, completely unpredictable. He stayed silent, trying not to draw attention to himself, and sat against the wall without moving. Not that he could move, if he wanted to. It was all he could do to stay upright. He watched with growing trepidation as Sean stepped over to the dead firefighter and began to drag the man from the room, toward the back room. A moment later, he heard the clunk of the outside door, and then the faint sound of the shovel outside. Sean was reconstructing his brother's last days down to the minutest detail, going so far as to kill an innocent man and bury him, just to complete the picture. Each scrape of the shovel made the hair rise on the back of Charlie's neck. He couldn't help but remember his earlier premonition that he would be buried in that hole. It appeared it was going to come true, after all.

It was short work to bury the man; the hole hadn't been filled in; the mounds of dirt had been left around it, along with the bits of scrub and the occasional scrap of crime scene tape. Sean just had to scrape out a bit of dirt, and then cover the man up with some of the dirt around the holeand the bits of scrub. He shut the door and came inside; rubbing thedust from his hands, and grinned at Charlie, his eyes bright with meth and insanity. "Time to eat," he said cheerfully. "I bought crackers. That's what Tommy ate."

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Megan, David and Colby had gone, heading to the office to begin to run down leads, and the room was silent. Don and Megan had refused to show Alan the video, but Megan had gently given him the news. Now Don and Alan sat in the living room; Don still in the recliner, and Alan was perched on the sofa, sitting forward, leaning over his legs, a hand over his face. He ran it downward as he drew in a huge breath, and Don's heart dropped as he realized that his father was crying. Alan was always such a dogged optimist, a bastion of strength – the only time Don had every seen him cry was at his wife's death. Don himself had been stunned into despair by the incomprehensible turn of events, and seeing his father like this – it was unbearable, too much to handle.

Alan tried to compose himself. "I'm sorry," he said, in a trembling voice. "This happening, after everything else..." He looked utterly defeated, and Don felt a sudden surge of impatience.

His father sounded as if he believed it was already over, and Don had to admit, he'd been submerged in despondency himself, but he refused to bow to it. As warped as Moran was, he had indicated that he wanted to meet. If he didn't go off the deep end before the deadline he gave, they had as much as three days, if Charlie could hold out that long with his injury. He was damned if he'd sit here and mope for three days, Don thought; concussion or not. He fumbled with the lever to the recliner, and lowered his feet with a sudden thump.

Alan's head jerked up with alarm. "What are you doing?"

Don stood for a moment, his jaw set stubbornly, trying to calm the whirling in his head from standing up so fast. "I'm going in the office, where I can do something. I sure as hell am not going to sit here."

Alan was on his feet, and grabbed Don's good arm as he started past him. "You can't do that. You're supposed to be resting. You can't drive yet. And that madman's after you, too."

Don tried to pry his arm away, and when Alan didn't relinquish his grip, Don yanked it away, hard. He staggered, and headed for the door. "I'm going in, Dad. First of all, I'll be safer there than anywhere – I'll be surrounded by agents in a secure building. Second of all, I _will_ be resting; I'll be sitting at my desk."

"That's not resting," protested Alan. "Look at you, you can't even walk straight. You can't possibly drive."

"Then drive me," retorted Don, rooting through the bag they'd brought from the hospital. "Where are my badge and my wallet?"

Alan reluctantly picked them up from the end table. "They're here. I brought them home from the hospital the first night you were there." He looked at Don resignedly. "I'll drive you, and I'm staying there. If you get tired, I'll bring you home."

Don nodded, and his face relaxed a little. "I can't just sit here, Dad."

"I know," admitted Alan, quietly. "I can't either."

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Charlie flexed his left hand experimentally, wincing, and watched as Sean tore into the cellophane on a pack of crackers. The fact that he could move his hand was a good sign, but his arm motion was extremely limited. He could only shift it a bit, and lifting it was out of the question. Even aside from the pain, his arm wouldn't respond. He glanced downward at the wrappings. Blood was seeping through, but slowly. The bullet appeared to be lodged near the outside of the joint, but apparently hadn't hit any major veins or arteries. He probably wouldn't bleed to death – not from this injury anyway.

His head jerked up as Sean approached him, offering him a cracker with a grimy hand –the same hand that had grubbed in the dirt, and handled a dead man. Charlie couldn't suppress a shudder of revulsion. He shook his head, closing his eyes.

"You have to eat," Sean insisted, and the edge to his voice made Charlie open his eyes again. Sean was smiling, but his eyes looked hard, with a hint of desperation.

A wave of anger swept through Charlie. This nutcase might have the upper hand, but he'd be damned if he'd play along with his sick game. "I'm not hungry," he said firmly.

"You have to eat," Sean demanded, his voice rising. "You have to make it two days – you need to keep your strength. Tommy ate – he told me he had crackers and water. You have to eat to make it right."

Charlie looked him in the eye, defiantly. "No." As soon as the word was out, he regretted his momentary bravado.

Sean's face transformed, ugly with anger, and he pointed a shaking finger in Charlie's face. "You don't tell me 'no!'" he screamed. He flung the cracker aside and grabbed Charlie by the arms, shaking him. The movement sent a knife of agony though his shoulder, wrenching an involuntary cry of pain from his lips. Sean grabbed him by the neck with one hand, and forced his head back against the wall, and Charlie froze, trying to catch his breath, to recapture coherent thought as he fought down the pain.

Sean's face loomed over him, smiling wickedly. "You're gonna do what I say," he smirked. His head jerked and rolled, and his eyes wandered, suddenly losing focus. He released Charlie's neck and grabbed the pack of crackers from the floor and stuffed one in his own mouth, nodding and muttering to himself as he chewed. "You and your brother. Gonna do what I say…"

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Megan and David stood near Colby's desk, waiting for him to finish a phone conversation with LAPD. She snuck a sideways glance at David; he was taking Charlie's abduction hard. He was holding himself responsible, even though no one else did. Megan had tried to point out to him thatit most likely had occurred before he even got there, and he had countered by insisting that if he'd gone inside, they'd have known earlier, and perhaps would have had a better chance at finding them.

As an argument, it was feeble, because at that point, they wouldn't have known what vehicle to look for, but that apparently didn't matter. David blamed himself. It reminded him, sickeningly, of the sniper case, in which he'd driven Charlie to the plaza where the sniper was – and had nearly driven him to his death. In that instance, however, David had vindicated himself somewhat; he was the one who had pushed Charlie out of the way of the sniper's second bullet, when the first one missed. That time, he'd managed to atone for his mistake – in this case, he didn't have that opportunity. To make it worse, he'd become much closer to Charlie than he had been then. You couldn't work with someone as much as he had with Charlie, and not develop a personal relationship, a friendship, a bond. They all had; Charlie had gone from being an odd, geeky little outsider to being one of them – part of the team. David hadn't just let Charlie down – he'd let his team down, as well.

Megan shook her head at the look on David's face, and sighed to herself. The fact was, they still weren't sure which vehicle to look for. They had the detail on the navy Park Avenue – make, color, a license plate number, but it sounded as though Moran had already switched vehicles. Colby was in the process of having LAPD send records of any stolen car in tan or gold. She glanced down again as his tone indicated the conversation was coming to an end, and noticed the look of surprise cross his face as he looked past her.

She turned and saw Don and Alan in front of the elevators, and concern spread across her face. "What in the heck is he doing here?" she murmured, and walked toward them, as Don stiffly made his way toward his desk.

He sat, and she could see the lines of pain in his face as she got closer, and she repeated her question. "Don, what are you doing here?"

He looked at her, and she could see pain in his eyes that was from something more than physical discomfort. "I can't sit around and do nothing. I can work at my desk, man the phones, something."

She looked away from the intensity in his gaze toward Alan, and saw an identical expression of resolution. It was obvious they were determined to be a part of this. She sighed. "I told Wright what had happened on the way in. He thinks you're at home, still on medical leave."

"I'll call him," said Don, quietly, as Colby and David approached. "Fill me in on what's going on."

Colby spoke up. "I just got off the phone with LAPD. They've got APB's out for Moran and the two vehicles, although we didn't have much to give them on the second one. At least if they spot a tan or gold sedan, they'll take a second look at the driver. They'll be calling those in here."

Don nodded. "I can take any tips, sort through them and prioritize them. What else?"

Megan spoke up. "I'm heading down to meet with Lieutenant Walker, and we're going to organize some teams to go through a listing of any warehouses which show as holdings under either Dillon or Lenny Angelo. We'll have some of our people involved, but there are at least 10 properties that we need to check out – we'll need some help from LAPD. In fact, Walker will have his people there to prep at 10:30 – I need to get going." She paused and looked at him. "You're calling Wright?"

The word 'now' was unspoken, but Don understood. It would be Megan's head if Wright wasn't notified that Don was working on the case. "Yeah, don't worry; I'll call him before I start anything. Get going."

With nods at Alan, the group dispersed. Alan stood there watching them go, and then looked at his oldest son, who had immediately picked up the phone, and sighed. Don was already engaged in the effort, but Alan felt as helpless here as he had at home. All he could do was to wait, and pray.

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Charlie watched Sean from under half-closed lids, trying to keep his breathing slow and regular; his face expressionless. It was difficult; the throbbing in his shoulder made his breathing shallow and fast, and he was sure some of the pain showed in his face. He'd come very close to passing out after Sean's attack, and as a desperate measure of self-defense, he pretended to – he'd faked unconsciousness for over an hour now, sneaking occasional peeks at his captor, trying to gage his mood.

Moran seemed to be coming down from his high; he was pacing and still full of energy, but his mood had turned from cheerful to anxious after his outburst. As the drugs in his system diminished, he seemed to become a little more lucid and he'd stopped the muttering, although his physical symptoms increased. His nose was running, and he kept scratching himself, tugging at locks of hair; his hands always moving – poking, scratching, touching. From time to time his head would jerk and roll, as if he was a fish with a lure in its mouth, and someone unseen was pulling on the line. Even though the meth was wearing off, he seemed ready to explode.

He turned suddenly and looked at Charlie, and Charlie closed his eyes too late. He could hear footsteps approaching him, and Moran prodded him. "I know you're awake."

Charlie opened his eyes, and realized Sean was squatting in front of him again with a paper cup filled with water from the cooler.

"Drink," said Sean, and he held the water to Charlie's lips. The water was cool, and tasted better than Charlie expected, and physical need displaced his reluctance to cooperate. He drank half the cup before stopping, and Sean held up a cracker. Charlie stared at it a moment, then at Sean, as the need to maintain his autonomy, his dignity, warred with fear.

"Don't make me hurt you again, Eppes," said Sean softly, a dangerous gleam in his eye. He pressed the cracker against Charlie's lips, and Charlie took it, feeling as if he'd somehow defiled himself.

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End Chapter 11


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: OP - I'm not sure why the words are clumping together - I can guarantee that they aren't in theoriginal document, and they aren't when I pull up the chapter for a last review in document manager. Something is happening between the document manager and the actual loaded story. When I get a chance I may try to get in there and see if I can reload the chapters that have the problem._

**Chapter 12**

A dispirited group clustered around the conference room table late that afternoon. Everyone looked exhausted, Megan thought, as her eyes roved the table, and Don looked ready to drop. He was still healing, and in spite of the fact he'd been sitting most of the day, it was still too much. He needed to be home in bed. Alan had hovered over him all day, and had tried numerous times to get him to leave, to no avail. The senior Eppes now sat silently, subdued, in the corner.

David still looked miserable, his eyes haunted, and even Colby was quiet. They'd spent a long day checking out warehouses and running down leads on the cars, none of which had panned out. Megan cleared her throat, and tried to put conviction in her voice. "We can go through the Moran property listings again. There may be a site we haven't looked at yet."

"It might not be their warehouse," said Don quietly, and his voice hardened. "There's one way to find out. We need to show Moran and Angelo the video."

"We'll have to get permission from the DA," said Megan, a note of caution in her voice. "They might want to exchange information for lesser charges, and I'm sure the DA will want to be involved."

"Then let's get him on the phone," said Don impatiently. "We're running out of time, here."

Megan's lips tightened just a bit, but she said nothing, just rose and stepped out of the room, heading for her phone. Don watched her, frowning, uncomfortably aware of how irritable he'd sounded. He rose and followed her out of the conference room, trailed by Alan's anxious eyes.

Don was beyond tired, and still unbearably sore, but at least his head seemed better. The headache was receding, his thoughts were clearer, and the dizziness was nearly gone. He needed rest, though, he knew; his body was ready to give out. The only thing that was keeping him going was adrenaline generated by pure fear. They had no idea what was happening with Charlie. How severe was his injury? Was he bleeding badly? Could he make it three days without treatment? Was Moran still with him, or had he left him somewhere, and wandered off in a drug-induced haze? Or worse, had he gone over the edge, and decided to terminate whatever plan he'd hatched, and end Charlie's life? The unknown was wearing at him, driving an unbearable sense of urgency; which in turn made him short tempered, edgy.

He drifted up next to her desk, a rueful expression on his face, and her lips quirked just slightly and her brow relaxed a little. She nodded at him reassuringly, wordlessly conveying that she had gotten and accepted his unspoken apology. It struck him suddenly how well they knew each other – he, Megan, David, Colby. Four different people, but they had such a deep understanding of each other, they could work through horrendous events like Megan's kidnapping and Colby's arrest, and still emerge as one unit, the bond intact, so powerful they didn't need words to communicate. Charlie had been part of that unit, too, and Don knew his agents viewed his brother as part of the team, every bit as much as they were.

The thought made him remember again why they were here. They were in this position because four years ago, Don had made a decision to allow Charlie to consult for him, to become part of that team. It was a decision he devoutly wished he hadn't made, and one he would forever question, no matter how this turned out.

Megan hung up the phone. "He approved it," she said, excitement in her voice, a smile on her lips. "He's going to call the prison and set it up. He'll meet us there."

Don felt his heart quicken. "When?"

"An hour from now."

He nodded. "Okay. We need to get prepared, and I need to review the tape again."

Her smile faded. "Don – you aren't – I mean, one of us should go in…"

He smiled back with a hint of steel in his eyes, and said nothing, just turned on his heel and headed for the conference room.

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Darkness was falling, and Sean studied his captive with concern, fighting the urge to pop another hit of meth. He was going to move the car soon, and he couldn't afford to be too high. He had taken two hits, which seemed to be enough to keep him from deteriorating physically – and mentally. His mind was playing tricks on him; part of the time it seemed to be working normally, and part of the time it wandered off into limbo, where reason seemed distorted. The wandering seemed worse when he was either very high, or very low. He needed just the right amount of meth to function. Two hits. Or maybe three.

Eppes was feeling the effects of his injury, Sean could tell. He was weak, flushed and glassy-eyed, and was still losing blood, slowly. As Sean watched him, he saw the young man's eyes flutter open and shut, and a shudder passed through him. Chills maybe. He remembered Tommy talking about feeling feverish, and his concern abated a little. This was going just as it should – just like Tommy, although Tommy had still been on his feet after two days. He wondered if Eppes could walk. Maybe after he moved the car, he'd untie him, and get him up on his feet.

He stared a moment longer, and the image in front of him transformed, the dark curls straightening, the features shifting, until he was looking at his younger brother. His stomach twisted; the image made him want to cry. He shook himself and it vanished, but it was enough to make him reach for his pack. Definitely, three hits – two were not cutting it. He tossed another one down, and sat down to wait for the sun to set.

The third hit helped. A half hour later, it was dark and he was out the door and in the car, and pulling down the long gravel road that led to the highway. When he'd driven to the site earlier, there had been a road block on the way in, but they'd taken one look at his coat, standard fire gear, and waved him through. There had been no block on the other side of the highway, he noted, and there still wasn't. He didn't want to take any chances, though. They could put one up at any time. He was going to leave the car on the other side of the roadblock, up on the ridge in the deserted housing development. He would hike back to the construction company under the cover of darkness. If anyone came poking around there, they wouldn't see a car. Plus, he'd have the vehicle stashed for his getaway, after he'd killed them.

He cruised through the roadblock area without raising more than a disinterested glance, and two hundred yards later, made the left that led up the ridge. He went all the way to the last cul-de-sac at the top, pulled the car off to the side, locked it, and began his trek back down the side of the hill in the darkness, avoiding the road and cutting through the scrub. The fireman had a flashlight in the vehicle, and Sean had tucked it in the voluminous pocket of the coat, but he would only use it in an absolute necessity. The construction building was a little over a mile away; a fifteen or twenty minute walk on a level surface. Through the scrub, and in the night, it would take him at least half an hour, plus a wait at the highway if there was traffic. He couldn't afford to have anyone see him cross it.

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Charlie heard Sean leave, and lifted his head at the sound of the car. He sat for a moment, listening, just breathing, as the sound of the tires on gravel faded. It seemed to take an effort just to do that; he was weak and shaky; racked with chills. It was dark again; he'd been shot the night before; what time he didn't know, but he knew it had been dark. He had to be closing in on twenty-four hours – one whole day. One whole day since his kidnapping, one whole day since he'd been shot.

His shoulder was still unbearably painful, but he found he could move his body a little now and still maintain consciousness. He suspected his shoulder was swollen; it was achy and throbbing, and he was sure he had a fever. Possibly the swelling had shifted things, taking pressure off a nerve, or maybe – he shuddered to think it – the tissue was infected and dying. The wound was still oozing blood; the dressings Sean had put on his shoulder had been saturated long ago. The upside was he was able to move a little, the downside was that he was rapidly becoming sicker and weaker. He knew if he was ever going to try to help himself, it would have to be now.

His eyes traveled to the desktop where Sean had set some of his things. The pack of crackers and the Taser were close enough to the edge that Charlie could see them, silhouetted in the moonlight streaming through the windows. He was hoping Sean's switchblade was there too. Taking a deep breath, he pulled his back away from the wall, and began to try to scoot forward by extending and pulling with his bound legs, creeping like an inchworm.

The desk was only a few feet away, but by the time he reached it, he was exhausted and trembling, covered in a cold sweat. He sat for a moment, breathing heavily, wondering how on earth he was going to stand. He forced himself to move; he had no idea how long Sean would be gone.

There was file cabinet next to the desk, and he pulled his feet close to him and leaned against it. His hands were bound in front of him; if his shoulder hadn't been injured, he could have lifted his arms and grabbed hold of the corner of the desk to help himself up, but with his limited mobility that wouldn't be an option until he got at least part way. He pushed with his feet and leaned against the cabinet, trying to get leverage.

The first two times, he only got a few inches off the ground, sliding his good shoulder along the cabinet as he rose. He couldn't get his feet underneath him well enough, and he lost his balance, landing with a thump on his seat again, sweating and panting with fatigue and pain. For a moment, he felt despair take hold – this was never going to work. He sat for just a moment, then shook himself mentally and gathered his resolve. He had to keep trying. The alternative was ending up in the pit in the back of the building.

He pulled his feet toward him again, and this time, tried to lean forward as he pushed sideways against the cabinet. Shaking and straining, he finally got to a height were he could grab the corner of the desk with his bound hands, and pulled. The stress on his shoulder sent a nauseating wave of pain through it and he groaned aloud, but kept pushing. He was now upright, leaning heavily against the cabinet for balance, his bound feet twisted awkwardly underneath him. He paused for a moment, his chest heaving, and his eyes fell on his target. The switchblade was there, lying on the other side of the crackers, next to a pack of plastic ties.

He leaned forward, sliding along the cabinet as much as he could, until he was bent over the desk. He had to use his hands for support now, and he set them on the desk and pushed forward, his hands sliding toward the knife. He was now bent nearly in half, his forearms on the desk, one hip still against the file cabinet for support. As he slid, his arms extended, and he could feel pressure increasing in his shoulder. The agony made him groan through clenched teeth, but still he pushed, until his hands made contact with the switchblade and one of them closed on it. Black spots were dancing in his vision now, and he clutched the knife desperately as he tried to pull himself back. He was losing it, had to hold onto the knife, had to…

When he woke, he realized he was sitting on the floor again leaning against the file cabinet, the knife lying next to him. He had no idea how long he'd been out, and he grabbed the switchblade, desperately, his hands shaking. He had to move, had to hurry. He examined the knife and found the catch, depressed it, and flicked the blade open. It was relatively easy to cut through the plastic tie around his ankles, but the hands were tougher. He tried putting the blade handle between his knees, but he couldn't grip it tight enough; the knife kept slipping or twisting. He finally got it secured between his bare feet, and cut through the tie on his wrists. He was free; the question was; could he walk?

Now that his good arm could move independently of his injured one and his separated feet could plant solidly on the floor, getting up was much easier. Still, he leaned against the cabinet as he rose, grabbing the corner of his desk with his right hand. Upright, he stood for a moment until the whirling in his head calmed, and took a shaky step, then two, using the desk for support. His eyes fell on the telephone – maybe he could call for help…

It was a futile hope, he discovered, the line was dead. He was going to have to make it out on his own, and it was now or never – he had to go. He set his sights on the doorway, and staggered toward it.

Outside, the faint scent of smoke assailed him, the wind gusting, flinging dust in his face. He moved away from the building, lurching, weaving; cradling his injured arm in his good one, heedless of the rocks cutting into his feet. He knew he had to make the scrub on the other side of the parking area, and he had to do it quickly. Once under cover, he'd follow the slope of the hill; he remembered that the highway lay at the bottom of it. The Santa Ana gusted again, nearly knocking him off his feet, and roared off over the hillside, like a capricious giant romping through the night.

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End Chapter 12


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor Boy Scout spaghetti dinners, nor dance pictures, nor late night meetings with co-workers in Shanghai, will keep me from posting my nightly chapter. _

_I do believe some of you are pyschic._

**Chapter 13**

Don sat in the passenger seat of Megan's car, watching the bright lights, which illuminated the area around the prison, draw closer. They danced in his vision for a moment, and he blinked. He was exhausted; his body was aching and felt like lead. Only will was driving him now; will, and fear. His father was furious with him; Alan had begged him not to come here, had implored him to go home and rest. Megan sided with Alan; and it was only Don's obstinate declaration that he would take a taxi there if he had to, that made her resignedly agree to take him. She was back in charge; she could have pulled rank, but she didn't, and for that Don was extremely grateful.

He didn't thank her, though – he acted as though coming along was his right. He needed to show her this was not a big deal; this was fine; he could handle it. He could tell by the doubtful expression on her face every time she looked at him that she was second-guessing her decision, and he was trying to make her feel more confident. Wright had allowed him to work on the investigation under her, using the same rules as before. Technically, those rules allowed her to take him out in the field, as long as he didn't participate in the action. Wright was leaving those judgment calls up to her, and Don didn't want to give her a reason to pull him.

Now they were at the prison. Alan had gone home, with assurances from Megan that Colby would take Don there as soon as they were done at the prison, and with the arrangement that Colby would spend the night, on guard detail. There would still be LAPD stationed outside; it wasn't that Megan didn't trust them – she didn't trust Don. With nearly one day gone since Charlie had been taken, she was afraid Sean was going to try to contact Don with a meeting point, and she feared that Don would try to go alone, as Sean had insisted. Colby was added insurance – he had instructions to report in, and to prevent Don from going anywhere, if Moran called. Her decision to let Don come to the prison was made partly so she knew where he was – and partly, she had to admit, because of the desperate look in his eyes.

She watched him with concern as they joined David and Colby and walked from the parking lot and through the two sets of security, down the hall. Don was on his last legs, she could tell, he held himself erect, but he moved stiffly, and was panting just a bit as they got to their destination, his shoulders sagging. The District Attorney, Roger Phelps, was there in person, and he listened with narrowed eyes as Megan outlined what they were going to do.

She indicated the computer case in David's hand. "The video was recorded at a warehouse. We checked all of the warehouses listed as holdings by either Dillon Moran or Lenny Angelo, and came up empty. We want to show the video to them, and see if they recognize the location. We'll try them one at a time, starting with Moran."

Phelps glanced at Agent Eppes with sympathy. He'd worked with Don Eppes before, and liked and respected him. He'd heard about the hit-and-run, and wondered what the man was doing here. Still, his presence might be useful in the interrogation room. A thoroughly pissed off federal agent, especially a man as intense as Don Eppes, could be pretty intimidating. "We need to make sure we are all on the same page, here," he said. "We are not to allow them to use any knowledge as a bargaining chip to reduce their sentence. I can tell you right now, that's a flat-out 'no.'"

Megan nodded. "We had no intention of that. In fact, we're intending to play one off the other – see if we can get one of them to sell the other out, not only on this, but on the drug charges."

"Moran's the one I want the most," the D.A. said. "Angelo's tie-in to the drug trafficking is more obvious, he'll be easier to convict – I'm not as worried about him. Moran will be a little tougher, and he's the top dog. If we can get either of them to talk, it'll help the case. Who's going in?"

"I am," answered Don, and at the same time Megan said, "Colby and David."

She looked at Don, frowning, but Phelps caught the look and before she could speak, he interjected. "It might not be a bad idea to at least have him in the room. It'll up the threat level a bit."

Don shot him a grateful glance, and Megan was silent for a moment, considering. "All right. But Colby and David handle the questioning."

Phelps nodded. "Okay. Let's do this."

The men were already situated in interrogation rooms, separately. The group paused and looked in the one-way window of the first room, and Don could see Dillon Moran seated at a table, hands cuffed in front of him. The prison jumpsuit and the restraints had done nothing to wipe the arrogance from the man's face, and Don could feel his blood begin to boil as soon as he caught sight of him. He could feel the weight of Megan's gaze, and he forced himself to stay cool, expressionless. A guard opened the door, and he followed Colby and David inside, his face a mask.

Moran eyed them with detached curiosity. He hadn't been told of the reason for the visit; they wanted surprise on their side. Hopefully, Moran's concern for his own brother would make him more willing to talk. Colby took up a position at Moran's side – too close, his arms crossed, as David unzipped his case and set up the laptop. Don moved around to a spot directly behind Moran, and leaned against the wall. He hoped Moran could feel his eyes, boring into the back of his skull. David pushed the laptop in front of Moran and leaned toward him, one of his arms on the table, as close to Dillon on one side as Colby was on the other. They were professionals, and their technique was well-rehearsed. Don could hear the imaginary film director in his head. _Places – action. Interrogation, take one_.

David spoke the first line. "We have a little issue, and we think you can resolve it for us." He jabbed at a button on the laptop, and started the video.

Dillon eyed David with lazy insolence, and shifted his eyes to the screen without a word. Don could see the reflection of Dillon's face in the screen, but the expression barely changed as the image came up. Don knew it had hit home, however, by the sudden tension in the man's body. It had to be a bit of a shock to see your brother go off the deep end.

Sean's ranting filled the room, and Don could feel his own gut clench as Sean turned from the camera, and approached Charlie with the gun. He'd seen this twice now, and it seemed to get worse each time, not better. He noticed more details with each viewing – Charlie's dazed, half-drugged expression, the way his eyes wandered the room, trying to make sense of the situation, the sudden horror as he realized the madman in front of him had a pistol. Don winced as the shot came, and opened his eyes again to see Charlie sliding down the wall, collapsing in pain, his eyes closed, his lips parted – a vision of shock and agony. He looked at Moran's back, and his hands suddenly itched to be around the man's neck.

David allowed the video to play out; then queued it up again. "You can see our problem," he stated. His dark eyes were intense, dangerous, and he leaned down and put his face in Dillon's. "I want you to watch this again, and I want you to tell us where this is."

Dillon had recovered his attitude, and he smirked. "And if I can't?"

Colby leaned down now, his blue eyes an icy counterpart to David's, his voice soft and threatening. "Don't play around, Moran. You know this is one of your places. You're in enough trouble – and you know your brother's off his rocker. You want to be a party to that?"

Dillon shrugged, and David pressed play again. Don's hands clenched into fists, as the sound of Sean's rage filled the room. "Where is that?" demanded David, stabbing a finger at the screen. "It's a warehouse – which one?"

Dillon eyed the screen with supreme indifference, and slouched in his chair. "Couldn't tell you." Behind him, Don pushed himself upright from the wall, nearly vibrating with fury. His fists were balled, and he unclenched them with difficulty, and flexed the fingers of his injured arm.

"Keep watchin'," ordered Colby.

The clip came to an end again, and Dillon yawned. "Don't know." He twisted his head, and caught Don's eye. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, amused, with the hint of Irish brogue. "Looks like your little brother's got himself in a fix."

Don surged forward, his hands drawn like a magnet toward the man's neck, and Colby was between them in a flash, heading him off with a strong hand on Don's chest. He winced in sympathy as Don grimaced in pain, the pressure aggravating the painful bruises on his left side, and Colby tried to shift his hold. Don pushed against him, his voice harsh. "You better cough it up, Moran, or I'll have your ass for this!" He flung off Colby's arm impatiently, but stepped back, breathing heavily.

"You try it, Eppes," hissed Moran. "I'll bring Walsh down on you so hard; you won't know what hit you. Is this how you made your career? Throwing your weight around, bringing in innocent businessmen?"

"Save it, Moran," Don shot back. "You're dirty, and we've got the facts to prove it. If you don't cooperate with us on this, we're going to dump this on you too – as an accessory. Tell us where that warehouse is."

"I'm telling you, I don't know! The little bit I saw in that clip could be anywhere. I'm assuming you already checked out anything I own."

"We have," David said; his jaw clenched tightly. "We're looking for unlisted property, off the record."

Moran snorted and his lip curled. "I don't have anything like that." He glared at Don. "Really."

"Okay, fine, Moran," Don said, his eyes snapping with suppressed anger. "If that's the way you want it, okay. We gave you a shot – now we're going to Angelo. You'd better hope to God he doesn't sell you out."

He turned on his heel and strode from the room. Colby and David lingered a moment, ostensibly to pack up the laptop, but also to give Moran a chance to reconsider. The man was silent, not giving them so much as a glance. They followed Don out, and left Moran sitting, scowling at his handcuffs.

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Sean Moran broke free of the scrub, and trudged up the driveway. He had made it across the mile of rough terrain, and had gotten across the highway without seeing a single vehicle. He was well aware of the roadblock down the road, however, and he stuck to the scrub until he was well up the gravel road that led to the construction company. Now far up the hill and well away from the highway, he finally felt secure enough to leave the brush as he walked the last yards to the construction buildings. It was completely dark, and the air was hazy from distant smoke, but there was a moon. It was the only reason he saw the slight figure up ahead, as it staggered across the open area in front of the building. His heart leapt, and he swore to himself. How had Eppes gotten free? He broke into a run, panic gripping his irrational mind, and forcing a howl of rage from his throat.

Charlie was nearly to the cover of the scrub when he heard the yell, made faint by the incessant wind. He froze for a moment, petrified, and saw a figure down the hill running full tilt toward him up the road, the coat flapping as he ran. Sean. "God," Charlie whispered, half in terror, half in prayer, and lurched for the scrub, scrambling for cover. His only chance was to lose himself in the chaparral in the darkness; he knew Sean was stronger, and capable of moving much faster at this point than he was. He pushed through the bushes and small trees, scrambling, falling and staggering to his feet again, gasping from pain and fear.

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Megan caught up to Don in the hallway as they strode toward the next interrogation room. "You came pretty close in there – you okay?"

His jaw was set tight, but he nodded, and the look in his eyes when he glanced at her twisted her heart. "I'm okay," he said. "I can't afford to blow this."

She returned his gaze, and satisfied with her mental assessment, she nodded. As they gathered outside the room, her eyes swept over the rest of her team, and she realized that maybe Don wasn't her biggest problem. David looked nearly ready to explode with anger; it reminded her of how he had been after Colby had been arrested – his temper on a hair trigger, simmering with barely contained fury. He was still taking Charlie's abduction very personally, and Moran's attitude had just upped his frustration level. Colby looked tense too, and Megan stood silently for a moment, just looking at them, until she had their attention. "I know this is hard," she said, steadily, "but Don just said it best. We can't afford to blow this. I don't want anyone going in that room whose head isn't on straight."

They nodded; but only Colby met her eyes. She took a deep breath as they opened the door, and exchanged a wordless look with Phelps.

Colby and David put themselves on either side of the suspect, as before, but this time Don sat across the table, thinking it was best if he put something between himself and the man. He studied Lenny Angelo. A thin face with pockmarked sunken cheeks, small dark, glittering eyes and a large thin hooked nose was capped by straight dark hair, which lay over his forehead in a neatly cropped line. He had a thin mouth, which appeared to be stretched in a permanent sarcastic sneer. He looked vaguely familiar, and Don realized he had seen him at Tommy's funeral, walking out behind Dillon and Sean. If only they'd made the connection sooner – but would it have made a difference? Even if they'd figured out the Moran-Angelo connection earlier, they still probably wouldn't have had enough evidence for a warrant for Sean.

He tried to push aside his whirling thoughts, and concentrated on watching Angelo's reaction as David started the video. "We want you to watch this," David said, his eyes locked on Angelo's face. "Tell us where you think this is."

Angelo quirked an eyebrow and his mouth turned down in one corner in an expression of distaste as Sean's voice floated out of the laptop. He watched silently until the end, and sat back in his chair. "What's in it for me?" he said, in a reedy voice as thin as his lips, laced with East Coast dialect.

David put his face in Angelo's and hissed. "I'll tell you what's in it for you, you scumbag. You don't go down on an obstruction charge."

Don interjected, leaning forward. "We looked at all of the warehouses you have listed as holdings, and all of Moran's. We want to know why we didn't find this one."

Angelo eyed him coldly, but inside, he was terrified by the rap he was facing, and his eyelid twitched, ruining the effect. He didn't dare talk about the meth operations, but maybe he could buy himself a little something by helping the Feds out with this. It wasn't as if he cared for Sean – he actually detested him – and it looked as though Sean was past all help now, anyway.

It was hard to tell from the surroundings in the video, but Lenny was reasonably certain that he knew where it was. "Because it ain't a separate warehouse, that's why. It's a small one in the back of the Outreach building. It ain't listed as separate property." He no sooner finished the statement than he found himself looking at their retreating backs. "You better give me some consideration for this!" he yelled after them, and glowered as the door shut behind them.

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End Chapter 13


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Sean Moran peered into the scrub, looking for a sign of movement. He had run up to the spot where he thought Eppes had entered the underbrush, but the wind was helping his quarry. The gusts whipped at the stunted trees and the bushes, and the motion and the noise camouflaged any rustling Eppes might be making. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to find him in the growth at night if it were not for one thing – he was injured. Sean pulled the flashlight from his pocket and flicked it on, running it over the bushes in front of him. They rustled in the wind, empty, mocking him. He started to move forward through them, when his light fell on something that made him pause. Splotches of blood – perhaps from Eppes' oozing shoulder, perhaps from cut feet, or both – glistened under the beam of the flashlight. Sean grinned, his face a lunatic mask in the moonlight, and pushed into the scrub, following the sanguine trail left for him on the rocky ground.

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The two vehicles careened into the parking lot, lights flashing, and swerved to stop. Don and Megan, Colby and David jumped out, and surveyed the building in front of them. The Outreach community center was located in South L.A., in the center of a part of town that once was deemed hopeless. It was still a bad area, ringed by tough neighborhoods, but this section had made a concerted attempt to beat back the drugs and the gangs. The Outreach center was an integral part of that effort – providing activities for teens; food and clothing for those who needed it. Donations were taken around the back, in the warehouse, accessible by a drive that cut between the community center and a neighboring building.

Megan held her hand up, signaling the others to wait. She looked at Don. "You need to hang back until we give the all clear. I've got SWAT on the way for backup, but I'm not waiting. You can follow us back to the warehouse, but don't go inside until we've cleared it, and keep a watch out for backup."

Don nodded impatiently. "I've got it. I'll stay behind you – just go."

Megan nodded, and the agents deployed around the corner of the main building, and down the dark drive. There was an open spot in the back of the center, paved for loading and unloading trucks, which was set between the main building and the warehouse. The agents fanned out as they hit the paved area, and spread around the warehouse, covering exits.

It took supreme willpower, but Don held back, closer to the Outreach main building. He was unarmed, and frankly, weak and exhausted, and he knew he had to stay out of their way. His fists clenched as he saw Colby kick in a side door and enter, crouching with his weapon in front of him, David behind him. He could hear sirens in the distance, getting closer. Megan was covering another entrance, but when she saw the lights come up inside and heard Colby's yell, she too ran for the open door, motioning Don with a wave of her hand.

She didn't need to wave him on – he'd heard Colby, as well. The actual words were "All clear," but Don didn't hear them that way. His fatigue, and hope borne of desperation had turned the muffled cry into "He's here," and he raced across the pavement after Megan with an energy he didn't think he possessed. He burst in the open door after her. "Charlie?"

He spotted Colby and David and tore toward them, catching up with Megan in the process, and stopped short, staring in shock at the concrete floor they were examining near the wall. Bare, except for the pool of blood. Colby knelt and ran a finger over it lightly. "Dry on the edges, just a little tacky in the center," he said, his voice husky with disappointment. He looked up at Don, miserably. "They haven't been here for hours."

Don stared at the blood, dazedly, and his pounding heart made an odd flutter. All of this – a whole day's work, only to find that they were long gone. He turned slowly; staring blankly at the room around him, as if expecting to see someone, something, any sign of life. The boxes and crates tilted crazily, and he felt hands on his arms, guiding him to the floor.

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Charlie staggered through the underbrush, heedless of the scratching branches and sharp rocks under his feet. He took a course diagonal to the gravel drive he'd just left, downhill and away from the drive, which, he figured, would put him out on the highway roughly near where the roadblock had been before. He had no idea if there was one there now; he'd been unconscious in the trunk when they came in that way, but the smoke in the air told him there were fires not too far off, and he prayed that the roadblock was still up. He was guessing he had at least a third of a mile of rough terrain to cover, maybe a half mile since he was traveling diagonally, and he knew he wouldn't have the strength to make it much further than that.

A little voice in the back of his head told him he wasn't strong enough to go even that far, but fear and desperation over-rode it. Every time he stumbled, every time he fell, panic flooded him, and the resulting surge of adrenaline pushed him to his feet. He was just beginning to think that maybe he had a chance; that the night and the wind would give him the advantage he needed, when he saw it. He was turned sideways, pushing through a thicker section of chaparral, and when he shot a quick look behind him, he saw light. It was moving and bobbing, threading its way down the hill toward him, and he realized with despair that he must be leaving a trail, and Sean was picking it up with a flashlight.

He pushed through the thicket with renewed energy, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The light was gaining on him, coming closer; its beam shooting through the growth like a malevolent eye. He pushed onward, stumbling almost blindly now in panic, trying to move faster. He could hear movement now behind him, and a noise that at first he couldn't identify, but then realized was laughter, strange-sounding and low-pitched. A sob of desperation broke from him as he fell again, and just as he got upright, he heard gravel grind under a boot behind him, and the full force of Sean's body hit him. The impact forced a cry of pain and despair from him, and as he fell, the sound was whisked off by the wind into the night.

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Megan stood, watching Don with concern. He'd shown up again at the office the next morning, and appeared a little stronger and was moving a little more easily, but his face was still haggard and drawn. They had brought him home the night before after his near collapse in the warehouse, and he hadn't fought them; in fact he appeared nearly catatonic with despair and fatigue. They'd handed him off to Alan, who swallowed deep disappointment at the news they had found the warehouse empty, murmured a subdued thanks, and helped his oldest son upstairs to bed. She and David had gone, but Colby had stayed, making a bed on the living room sofa. She was hoping Don would stay there today, but at around ten, he was back again, brought in by an apologetic-looking Colby.

Don was now running the video, playing it back again and again, much like he had done with Colby's interrogation video, after his arrest. She stepped up behind him. "Maybe that's enough of that," she said quietly.

Don hit play again, and at first she thought her words hadn't even registered, but then he spoke, his back to her, still facing the screen. "Moran said for me to show up after three days, but he didn't say where. He's got to know that he has to tell us where, right?"

She answered him quietly. "I'm sure that's the plan. He probably won't tell us until the last minute. He wouldn't want us to get to the meeting point ahead of him. We need to talk about that - there's no way you're going in there alone and unarmed. I'm not sure Wright will let you go in at all, and frankly, I don't think you should either. Even if we decide it's necessary for you to show up so we can get close, we're going to play by our rules, not his. If he contacts you directly, you have to promise me, you'll let us know."

Don sat there silently, and after a moment Megan spoke, with determination in her voice. "Don, look me in the eyes and promise me that if he calls, you'll pull us in on it."

He swung around and faced her reluctantly. He knew she was right; they would probably have a better chance at pulling off a rescue with an entire team, instead of just him. "Okay, I promise." He sighed and shook his head. "It's just that – three days – that's tomorrow for God's sake, it's too long." He swiveled his chair around again to face the now-blank screen, and his voice dropped off, so low she could barely hear him. "What if he can't hold out that long?"

The question was rhetorical, but she answered it anyway. "Charlie will hold out – he's tougher than he looks. Moran's mind is twisted, but he is determined to pull this off. He wants Charlie alive until you get there – you need to remember that." Her voice rang with confidence, but as she watched him nod dispiritedly, she felt hollow inside. The truth was, all they had to go on was a seven-year-old's description of a 'goldish-tan' car. The truth was; they had nothing.

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Sean squatted next to his captive, peering at him with eyes made bright by his last hit of meth, and pulled at a lock of lanky hair. The professor was stirring and moaning softly, and Sean watched him intently, holding a cup of water, waiting for him to waken.

He'd knocked Eppes out when he tackled him the night before. Sean couldn't see a head injury, so he surmised it was sheer pain from Eppes' hard contact with the ground that made him pass out. It had been a tough job getting him back up the hill; Eppes was slight, but still, trying to walk uphill through the brush with a body over one's shoulder was exhausting. Sean had finally removed the heavy fireman's coat and laid Eppes on it, and dragged him the rest of the way.

He'd stirred a few times during the night, but never woke, at least not that Sean knew. He suspected Eppes might have been hiding the fact he was awake, and so finally that morning, Sean had camped out next to him, watching. There was no question that the professor was in bad shape. If the man was going to stay alive until tomorrow, he needed food and water.

Charlie's eyes flickered open, and he blinked at the sunlight streaming through the windows. He was tired, so tired, and he shivered as a chill went through him. His entire shoulder felt as though it was in a steel vise, and the plastic ties around his ankles and wrists were redundant; he was too weak to move. His body lay heavily, his limbs like lead weights. His attempt to escape had used up precious reserves, and he could feel his strength waning, the fever taking hold. He felt a hand under his head then a cup at his lips, and he sipped; then drank more deeply, pausing for breath until the water was down.

He blinked again as his head was lowered, and Sean's face came into focus. He was peering at Charlie intently. "Need to get you up," he said, and his shoulder jerked crazily. "Get some food in you."

His words were staccato, choppy; robotic. Charlie winced, bracing himself for the pain as Sean put his hands under his shoulders and lifted him to a sitting position. The wall itself wasn't enough to hold him up any longer; he was too weak, and Sean had to drag him a few feet, and prop him between a file cabinet and the wall. The pain and the motion made Charlie's head swim, and he leaned it back in the corner and closed his eyes, trying to fight back the memory of the dreams he'd been having – the nightmarish sensation of dirt, burying him alive.

A wave of despair engulfed him suddenly, and he could feel tears sting his eyes under the closed lids. He heard Sean say, "Here," and he opened his eyes to see him crouched in front of him, offering him a cracker. The situation suddenly struck Charlie as ludicrous – he was sick, bleeding, quite possibly dying, and this madman was waving a cracker at him as if it was the panacea for all his problems. A soft snort of laughter erupted from him, in spite of the tears. Sean stared at him, his head doing its now familiar jerk-and-roll, and then broke the cracker in half and pressed it to his lips. "Eat," he commanded.

Charlie took it, trying to ignore the griminess of the hand that held it. There was no sense fighting the man anymore; Sean had long ago crossed over the line of rationality. The insane plan he'd hatched consumed him, controlled him; Charlie realized that Sean was driven purely by what he needed to do to carry it out, whether it made sense or not. He hadn't quite given up hope that somehow, someone would find him, rescue him, but as time wore on, that hope grew dimmer. The one thing that still terrified him was the fact that he knew Sean was trying to involve Don. He had been in a drug-induced haze when Sean had been talking into the camera, and then consumed with the pain of the gunshot wound, but he was sure he remembered Sean giving Don some kind of directions.

He swallowed the bit of cracker with an effort and looked at Sean. "Why are you doing this?" It took even more of an effort to get the words out, his voice was raspy and weak, but he felt he needed to find out what Sean had planned.

Sean gave him the other half of the cracker, with a snort of derision. "Why?" He grinned, his head jerking, but it faded as he realized he'd lost the answer. He knew he had to stick to the plan, but why? It came back to him, the thought swooping back through the drug-infested convolutes of his brain, and he grinned triumphantly; then scowled with hatred. "Because you and your brother took my brothers. You need to pay for that."

His head jerked. "Your brother is gonna know exactly what I went through, how I had to sit for three days while Tommy sat and rotted with a bullet in his shoulder. Then he's gonna come and watch me shoot you, and throw you in the grave. That part's for Tommy. Then I'm gonna shoot your brother. That part's for Dillon." He nodded with satisfaction, and pulled out another cracker, with a twitch of his shoulder. "Tomorrow's three days. He's comin' here tomorrow. I told him to come by himself."

He nodded again and grinned, his eyes glinting crazily as he offered Charlie the cracker.

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End Chapter 14


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: It gets worse...Because you're all so great, I'm getting this one out early today. _

_Do you like to read but not write, and have a plot bunny you'd dearly love to see put into a story? Visit SAQT's new forum, the Plot Bunny Adoption Center, and drop it off. Writers, looking for story ideas? You can go there as well. _

**Chapter 15**

Charlie stared at his captor, terror mounting in his chest. He wondered how much of Sean's plan Don understood; if he knew it was a trap with him as the final target. His train of thought was broken as Sean stuffed the cracker he had offered in his own mouth and rose, saying as he chewed, "We should call him. I told him he needs to come, but you can tell him too."

Charlie's heart lurched. He could feel fear twisting inside him as he absorbed the implications of the plan, and now Sean was telling him he'd actually get to talk to his brother – the thought generated another wave of emotion that nearly took his breath away. He fought it back; he had to keep his head clear, had to figure out some way to let Don know what Sean was planning.

Sean rummaged in his pack and pulled out the cell phone he had gotten from Sarko. He was halfway across the floor again when he turned, as an afterthought, and grabbed the Taser from the cabinet. He squatted next to Charlie and held up the device. "I'm gonna talk, then you're gonna ask him to come. You need to beg, make it good. You follow directions, and I don't hurt you." He waved the Taser at Charlie meaningfully.

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Colby stood with his phone to his ear, pacing as much as the cord would allow. "Yeah. Got it. Okay, you're getting with the manager? We'll be there as soon as we can. Thanks, man." He hung the phone up sharply and trotted for the conference room, where Megan, Don, and David were gathered. They looked up as he barreled through the door, excitement on his face.

"We got a lead. LAPD was responding to a domestic disturbance call at an apartment complex, and they spotted the car that Sean Moran stole from the maid, parked in the lot. I told 'em to touch base with the manager, and have him pull up a list of the vehicles that his renters own – the renters have to give him descriptions and license plate numbers when they sign on to rent. I told him to look for anyone listing a gold or tan car, and we'd get down there to check them out – see if anyone reported theirs stolen."

Don cell phone rang, and he pulled it out as Megan spoke. "Good – you and David can check that out. If you get anything, call it in, and Don and I…" She glanced at Don as she said that, and stopped abruptly, as Don's eyes widened. He held up a hand; then fumbled for the line to hook his cell phone into the speaker on the table.

"Yeah, Moran," he said as he hit the speaker button, with a meaningful look at his agents. "I'm here." He could feel his heart pounding, and his hands shook a little as he laid the phone gently in front of him.

Without a pause, Colby slipped out to order a technician to get a trace on the line, and softly, silently, shut the door behind him, to make sure none of the office noise came through the speaker. The volume was on high, and Sean's voice filled the room.

Sean glanced at Charlie, and grinned into the phone. "You get to watch your video, Eppes?"

Don's jaw worked. "Yeah, I saw it. I want to talk to Charlie."

"Just chill," Sean said. "You remember what I told you?" Charlie stared at him, his heart thumping, straining to hear his brother's responses coming from the phone at Sean's ear.

"I remember," Don replied. "We don't need to wait, we can meet today. Where are you?" He glanced through the window of the conference room; he could see Colby across the office, bent over a computer terminal with a technician.

"You know where I am," replied Sean angrily. "Don't play games. I told you three days – that's not until tomorrow."

Don looked at the other agents in confusion. "I don't know where you are. You need to tell me. Is Charlie there? I want to talk to him."

Charlie was looking at Sean, trying to understand the one-sided conversation. Don knew where they were? It didn't make sense – of course, none of this made sense to anyone but Sean. He strained to hear Don's voice on the other end, the words unintelligible; then Sean suddenly thrust the phone toward him, and held it to Charlie's ear. "You talk. Tell him he needs to come at one in the afternoon tomorrow." Charlie hesitated, and Sean hissed angrily. "Talk to him!"

Charlie swallowed, and managed one word. "Don?" It came out as a hoarse half-whisper.

Don had heard Sean talking to his brother, but when Charlie came on the line, he sagged against the table, relief at hearing his brother's voice mixed with anguish. Charlie sounded weak, in pain. "Charlie," he choked out, and had to collect himself before he could manage the next sentence. "Charlie, where are you? Do you know where you are?"

Charlie froze, his mind trying to process the situation. Don _didn't_ know where they were. Somehow, Sean just assumed that he did – the sequence of events seemed so obvious to the man that he thought the plan was self-evident – and that everyone else thought the same. If he'd been rational, Sean would have realized if the agents knew where they were, they'd be here by now. His presumption was that Don would play by the rules of the game – and that he knew them already. Sean was figuring Don knew where to go, and on what day – Sean just needed to tell him what time – to give him permission to come.

That left Charlie with a choice. He could blurt out where he was – he would get punished he was sure, but the damage would be done – Don would get the information. It might save his life, or might not – Sean could still kill him before they could get there. On the other hand, if he didn't tell Don, he couldn't come if he wanted to – which could very well save his brother's life. Charlie knew what he had to do – and he knew it meant this was probably the last time he'd ever speak to his brother – to anyone he loved, again. The thought made a huge well of emotion rise in his chest, so strong he could barely breathe. He took a feeble breath, trying to fight down the tears, to keep his voice steady. "No."

He saw Sean scowl at him, trying to figure out what they were talking about, as Don spoke again, rising anxiety in his voice. "You don't have any idea?"

"No," said Charlie again, hoarsely. His heart swelled with a surge of pain_. 'I'm sorry we argued. I love you,'_ he thought desperately. _'You know that, right?'_

"Tell him to come," hissed Sean, his face contorted.

Charlie stared back at him; then spoke with as much strength as he could muster. This was good-bye. "Don – it's a trap. Don't come."

Don heard Charlie's quiet words, and a short burst of swearing on the other end, which was cut off immediately by static on the line. "Charlie?" he said; fear expanding painfully in his chest. "Charlie?" The static continued; it sounded as though the call had been disconnected, but he wasn't sure. He looked wildly out the door at Colby, who was looking across the bullpen back at them, shaking his head. The static abruptly ended, and the sound of a dial tone replaced it. Don let out a pent up breath in a whispered moan, and putting a hand over his face, closed his eyes.

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Sean paced frenetically back and forth, still clutching the Taser. He'd blasted Eppes in a fit of rage, shaking with fury, his finger on the button until the man's spasms stopped and his eyes rolled back in his head. Only then did he release the button. The phone had dropped to the floor, the connection broken by the surge of electricity. Sean's head twitched uncontrollably, and his face twisted in a grimace, brought on by a tic. He needed a hit, God, he needed a hit. He strode over to his backpack and tossed down one, then two, and stood shaking, waiting for the unbearable crawling sensations to leave. As he began to calm down, it occurred to him maybe he'd just ruined his own plans – he might have just killed his hostage. He darted over to him, and felt for a pulse, breathing a sigh of relief as he found one. Just unconscious.

He grabbed the phone, intending to dial Eppes again, but he couldn't get it to bring up anything on the tiny screen. The Taser had fried the circuitry. He glanced around him, and saw a phone on one of the desks. He darted over to it and lifted the receiver to his ear, but got nothing, not so much as a dial tone. Apparently, the owners had stopped phone service while they were gone, to save costs, or the fire up the road had taken down the lines. Either way, Sean was left without a means of communication. Maybe it didn't matter. Agent Eppes knew what had happened with Tommy; he was there when it went down. He should know he had to play the game the same way, to show up at the same place, at the same time of day. Unless, thought Sean, the agent was planning to cheat.

He stood and started pacing again, but more calmly, trying to bring order to his disjointed thoughts. The whole conversation made him realize that the agents might not play by the rules; that maybe Agent Eppes would try to come earlier, or worse yet, bring others. It still hadn't occurred to him that they didn't know where he was. In his twisted mind, the only threat was that they would not wait the full time. He needed a way to make them abide by the rules – to thwart them if they showed up early, or if Eppes didn't show up alone. He stopped dead in middle of the floor, considering. One way would be to leave here with the professor, and not return until it was time. However, he would need the car – he would have to bring it back through the roadblock and back out again, and then return later. Much too risky.

They could hide in the brush, but that would be uncomfortable; and cold at night. A sudden idea occurred to him, and he stepped into the back storeroom, eyeing the racks of cardboard boxes. Some of them were big enough to hide a man. He could get a couple ready, just in case, and if someone came, they could hide in there until they left. He felt suddenly lighthearted and confident again as the inspiration hit him, not realizing that it was the meth coursing through his veins that invoked the sensation of power. If anyone came snooping around, they'd simply play hide and seek. He giggled to himself at the thought and spun around in a circle, then spun again, thrilling at the way the racks whirled around him.

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Megan's original thought had been to go with Colby and David out to the apartment complex, but she'd squelched it as soon as it occurred to her. She wanted Don there at the office, out of the field as much as possible. Furthermore, someone had to stay with him, and the phone call that afternoon had driven that home. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, if Sean Moran had directed Don to come right then, alone, he'd have done it without question. Hopefully not unarmed, but even if Don did decide to take the risk of going against Moran's directions and bring a weapon, he'd still be walking into a situation where he'd be at a disadvantage. Moran would be waiting, prepared. There was no way that Megan was going to allow that to happen. So when Colby and David returned that afternoon, she was waiting there with Don.

They walked in with that 'I've got something,' look on their faces, and as Don looked up and saw them, Megan saw a flicker of hope in his expression. They headed for the conference room without a word. "We checked with all the owners of either tan or gold cars that lived at the complex," Colby began, as soon as they entered. Megan sat, but the rest of them remained standing, Don with his arms crossed, tension in his face. Colby continued, "It's possible that the car wasn't stolen from there, but it was a starting point at least. We got only one hit, but we think it's a good one."

David nodded. "The owner wasn't home, but a neighbor woman said he's out a lot. He's a firefighter, and he's been working the wildfires north of L.A. So we called the fire marshal, Lackerman – the one we talked to up at the fire past Arrowhead Mills, and he said the guy was on his roster, but hadn't reported for duty since he got off – two nights ago."

Megan's eyebrows rose. "Now there's a coincidence."

Colby nodded emphatically. "That's what we thought, too. We already had the plate number from the apartment manager – we phoned an APB in to LAPD on the way back."

Don looked at Megan. "You're thinking maybe he picked a fireman on purpose?"

Megan nodded. "Think about it. He's recreating the events, which included shooting a firefighter and commandeering his vehicle-,"

"Shit!" Don exploded, interrupting her as the realization hit him. "The construction site!"

They stared at him, dumbfounded. Colby shook his head. "He couldn't be that stupid, could he?"

Don's eyes flashed with conviction. "He's not rational, right? The way he was talking, he thought I would know where his meeting place was. He picked a firefighter who lived up in that area; that apartment complex wasn't that far from Arrowhead Mills."

It was David's turn to look doubtful. "But Charlie told you he had no idea where he was. He'd have known if he was back at the construction company. It has to be somewhere else."

Don's shoulders fell, but he persisted. "Maybe he was afraid to say it," but even as he spoke he knew the statement didn't make any sense. When he'd asked Charlie if he knew where he was, his brother could just as easily have answered 'yes' instead of 'no,' without incriminating himself any more than he had. Plus, at the end of the conversation, Charlie had thrown caution to the winds anyway, and blurted out a warning. He could just as easily have blurted out the location, if he knew it. Just as fast as the conviction had come, it vanished, and Don felt misery return.

Megan was reaching for her cell phone, with a sympathetic look at Don. "It's worth checking out. I'm going to call Sergeant Watson from the Highway Patrol – he can get a man up there to scope it out a lot faster than we could get there. If there's nothing there, we'll set up a search of similar locations in the area. Colby, you still have the surveillance photos, right?"

Colby nodded. "I can look at them to see if there are any similar setups – other businesses in the area of the fire." He turned and strode off toward his desk.

Megan had connected with Watson. "Hey, Bill, it's Megan Reeves. We've got a situation again – it's a long story, and I'll fill you in on details later, but we think we may have a repeat of a hostage situation in the area. We want to check out the construction site where we took down the prison escapees first, but we may call you with other locations. It takes us nearly an hour and a half to get out there, and we were wondering if you could send someone up to check out that construction site right away. We've got an APB out for a metallic gold Ford Taurus." She rattled off the license plate, and listened for a moment.

"Okay," she said. "You know, send at least two men – just to be safe. If the kidnapper is there, he's armed and dangerous and quite likely high on meth. If they see the Taurus, have them stand down and call us, then stay there and wait. We'll need to come in with SWAT."

She hung up and stood, and looked at Don. She could still see the emotion in his face from the phone call, and she gave his arm an encouraging pat as they headed out toward their desks. "This is good, we've got progress," she said to him, and her voice trailed off, lost in the din of the outer office.

David had risen too, and turned off the lights. He just stood there for a moment in the darkened doorway, his tormented eyes on his boss. It killed him to see the man suffering like this, to think of Charlie, captive again, severely wounded – it had been bad enough the first time, but this time it was David's fault. He should have gone in to the Eppes' house that night – he should have checked on Charlie. They would have known hours earlier that he was gone, would have had alerts out while Moran was still moving, before he'd gone into hiding.

David knew they didn't blame him, but that didn't matter, not one bit. He had always set high standards for himself, expected more of himself than others, even as a child in the tough neighborhoods where he'd grown up. Lack of money, his race, and lack of opportunity – those may have been obstacles to overcome, but they were not excuses for failure. To him, there was no room for excuses, no matter what the situation. He blamed himself, and that was all that counted.

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End Chapter 15


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Sean had just finished emptying two large boxes that had originally held compressors, and had subsequently been filled with scrap paper, when he heard the cars. The wind was loud enough that he actually hadn't heard the tires on the gravel, but he did hear the slam of a car door, and he dashed from the back room to peer out a window. Two state highway patrol cars sat outside; one of the men had apparently been a little more careless than the other, and slammed his door shut. Otherwise, Sean wouldn't have had any notice at all. He ran to the door and locked it, even though it would only buy him seconds; he'd left the key under the mat outside.

The men headed first for the garage, and Sean dashed over to the unconscious man slumped against the wall. With strength generated by panic, he lifted Charlie over his shoulder with one heave, and ducked into the storage room, depositing the limp body in one of the boxes. He shoved the empty box to a corner, then pushed the one with Charlie in front of it, and dashed out to the outer office, grabbing his backpack, and scattered items – the cell phone, the Taser, the pack of crackers, and dumped them in the box with Charlie. His gun he kept with him, sticking it in the back of his jeans.

He stole a quick glance out the window; the men were still checking the garage. He closed the flaps on the box containing Charlie and taped them shut. Stepping back out into the office, he took one wild last glance around, and the fresh blood on the floor caught his eye. Grabbing some paper towels from the kitchen, he mopped up the fresh blood – there was still plenty of dried blood along the wall, but there was no time to deal with it - this would have to do. Some of that blood was Tommy's; it had been there when Sean had arrived. He only hoped the officers would realize that, would think it was old.

He wadded up the towels and squeezed past Charlie's box to the empty one behind it, threw the towels in and got inside, sitting with his knees pulled up to his chin. He couldn't tape this box from the inside; that was why he put it in the corner – farther away from searching hands. The best he could do was to close the flaps by overlapping them one over the other, and he'd just gotten that done when he heard the rattle at the door. He pulled his gun from the back of his jeans and leaned against the wall of the box, willing himself to be still, trying to catch his breath.

The two officers had made their way toward the office, pausing to take a quick look around the back, before going to the front door. Officer Gage tried the door, and peered through the window. "Looks empty. Should we call it in?"

The other officer, Mike Teal, frowned. "I was here the first time, when they found those escaped convicts – I helped secure the scene for the crime lab. I heard they sent one of our guys up to check out the site, and the convicts' vehicle was in the garage covered with a tarp; he thought it was construction equipment and reported it out that way, didn't go in the office. Turns out, it was a major screw-up. They were here all along. I think we should go in – to be thorough."

Gage looked unconvinced. "Yeah, but there was at least a vehicle here, then. There's nothing now." He looked around at the scrub, narrowing his eyes against a gust of wind. 

Teal was the senior of the two, and he made the call. "We're going in." He stooped and lifted the mat. "The owner had told us to leave the key when we were done. I hope the crime scene guys did that or we're gonna have to bust a window…" he broke off as he saw what he was looking for, and moments later the door was unlocked, and they were inside.

The first thing Teal noticed was the coppery odor of blood, and he frowned. They moved forward silently, guns ready, trained in front of them, but lowered slightly. They checked out the kitchen first, along with the attached bathroom, and moved to the storage area. Gage pointed silently to the dried blood on the floor, but Teal just shook his head, and motioned them into the storage area. He flicked on the light, and they moved through it, quickly looking through the racks and behind boxes. Nothing. They relaxed and straightened a little, and Teal holstered his piece. 

"What about that blood?" asked Gage, stepping over to the doorway to peer at it again, slipping his gun in his holster. 

"That was there before," Teal answered. "I remembered the crime scene guys taking swabs of it for DNA."

Gage moved out into the office, and Teal followed him, turning out the light in the storage room. They were moving slowly now, strolling toward the door, sending last relaxed glances around the office. "You could smell the blood when you came in," said Gage. "I could have sworn we had something for a minute."

"Yeah, I smelled it too," said Teal, as he turned the lock in the door handle. "Must be because the place has been closed up…," the rest of his statement was lost as the door closed. 

Sean just sat there, his mad eyes gleaming in the darkness of his box, grinning to himself in triumph as the car doors slammed, and the wind whistled around the corners of the building.

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Charlie felt moisture on his face, and his eyes fluttered open. He gazed around the office dully, trying to get his sluggish mind to work. He felt unbearably hot, and as he felt the moisture again his eyes shifted, and he realized that Sean was dabbing his face with a wet towel, making an odd crooning sound. 

It was near sunset, judging by the light coming in through the windows, and Charlie's brow furrowed as he tried to get a grip on the time, the circumstances. His heart gave a little jump as his memory returned, and the phone call with his brother surfaced in his foggy consciousness. Just as quickly, his heart plummeted as he remembered the call, and their conversation. He was sure now they weren't coming for him; they couldn't – they had no idea where he was. 

He took comfort in the fact that Don wouldn't be walking into whatever Sean had planned, but an almost unbearable sadness came with it – he was facing the end. He'd never see his brother, or his father, or Larry, never hold Amita again; never get to say good-bye. He wondered vaguely whether he would die before the time Sean had set on the following day, and what would happen if he didn't. He suspected Sean would just shoot him, and collect at least that part of his revenge. Either way, he could feel the pit calling him, its pull stronger by the hour.

The night was a garish, confused twisting mélange of thoughts and dreams. Charlie finally passed out, and when he woke, he felt something, and his mind struggled to identify it as his eyes cracked open. There was a hand at his neck, he realized vaguely; Sean was feeling for a pulse and peering into his face, his crazed eyes reflecting the morning light. Charlie was lying on his back, and dimly, he became aware that there was a blanket over him, and the bindings on his wrists and ankles had been removed. At least he thought they had, he was too weak to move, and the realization swirled through his brain and away before he could grasp it. 

Dreams and reality were one now, shifting in and out through his consciousness. It was midmorning, but he no longer could track time, and kept confusing things that had happened during the first kidnapping with this one. Before he woke, he'd been dreaming, or hallucinating, of talking to Don at the FBI offices, and it was just as real as the hand now under his head, and the cup of water at his lips. He tried to swallow; it took him several tries to get down just a sip of water, and he knew he was near the end. His body was being consumed, his strength nearly gone, eaten away by fever, infection, and pain. He was now merely existing, floating, waiting dully for it all to end, hoping for it, and terrified by it at the same time. Exhausted by the pitiful effort to drink, his eyes drifted shut.

Sean rose and tossed down another hit of meth, pacing and gibbering softly to himself. _Touch, touch, head-jerk, touch_. His hands roamed to his head, his elbow, pulled at his hair. _Eppes was fading, he was bad – this was not good. He had to hold on, hold on until the afternoon. Had to die in front of the agent, or it was no good. No good. Hair tug, scratch. No good…_

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Megan opened her car door, and plunked down in the driver's seat, pulling the door shut against the wind. It was early afternoon, and they were out at the roadblock. She and Don, Colby and David, and some of the highway patrol officers had spent the morning checking out likely sites in the area – anything that resembled the construction site, which had unfortunately come up empty. Actually, it was Colby and David who were checking out the sites along with the CHPs; she and Don had spent much of the time at the roadblock, taking reports from the officers and the other agents as they came in. 

Don had insisted on coming along, and she conceded, just so she could keep track of him – to make sure he didn't try to meet with Sean Moran on his own. Because he was along, she had decided to forgo searching any sites herself; she intended to keep Don away from any possible confrontations with Moran, especially as the afternoon drew near. During the first kidnapping, they had recovered Charlie early in the afternoon of the third day, and that time was now here. Frankly, she was very surprised that Moran hadn't tried to contact Don again by now. 

She looked sideways; Don was slumped in the passenger seat, his elbow propped on the door, one finger absently grazing his lower lip as he looked out the window. Every time she looked at him, she saw the spark, the conviction in his eyes grow a little dimmer. As time wore on, his hope was waning, but his expression was having the opposite effect on her. The bleaker Don looked, the more desperate she felt. They had to find Charlie, had to get Moran, and soon. She refused to consider the alternative, and pushed down the panicky feeling that was growing inside. She was in charge here, and she was in danger of failing – not just a case, but failing two people who she cared for very much. Failure was simply not an option. 

She pulled a sheet from a file and crossed off the name of yet another site that had just been checked off by the CHP officers. Don turned his head, his eyes darkening as he watched her line out the number they'd assigned to the site. "Nothing?" he said, and the resignation in his tone made it sound more like a statement than a question. 

She shook her head, and sent him a commiserating look. "Nothing."

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Sean peered at his watch, rocking himself back and forth on the floor of the storage room. It was over, the time had come and gone, and there was no Agent Eppes. He had thought that he was going to show early that morning; Sean had heard a car, and, heart pounding, he shot to a window. It wasn't Don Eppes; instead, two more officers had shown up, looked quickly around and left, with just a brief look in through the office windows. Sean had managed to get himself and the professor hidden the boxes again, but it was wasted effort – they didn't even come inside. 

Sean had hoped that the visit meant that Eppes was coming soon, but the wait was in vain. Agent Eppes was a lying, cowardly bastard, and he hadn't shown. The agent had ignored all of the planning, the effort; _the way it had to be_. Now it was ruined. There was nothing to do but regroup, and re-plan. A new plan would not be the right one, it would not be perfect, but still Sean knew he had to kill them both in the end. Even if Eppes didn't see his younger brother die, it still needed to be done.

He crawled on his hands and knees over to the professor, and put his finger on the man's neck again. There was a pulse, but it was very faint, irregular. The man was as good as dead; there was no sense even wasting a bullet on him. He would just bury him out back with the firefighter, make his way across the terrain to his car, and find the agent. He would shoot the agent, and it would be done. Not perfect, but done. One for Tommy; and one for Dillon. Done. 

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Megan unrolled her window as David and Colby approached the car, eyes narrowed against the wind. Don watched, his heart sinking at the expressions on their faces.

Colby shook his head. "We checked out the little storage unit up the road – it was the last location before the fire command center. Nothing."

Don heard Megan sigh, and she opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, her cell phone rang. She flipped it open and put it to her ear, and what she heard made her pull it from her ear and hit the speaker button. "Say that again, officer," she said tersely. Colby and David bent over; heads in the window, trying to hear over the wind, and Megan and Don exchanged a glance filled with hope and tension.

"_I found the car_," the man said excitedly. "_There's a road cut up that hill behind you for a housing development – no buildings yet, but the car's up there. I took a drive up, just for the hell of it, and it was here – pulled into the top cul-de-sac_."

Don spoke, trying to keep his voice from shaking with excitement and apprehension. "Anyone with it?"

"_No one apparent. I didn't try to open the trunk – but there's an odor_."

The four agents froze at the words. Megan finally managed to find her voice. "Don't touch anything. We'll be right up. How do we get up there?"

"_Turn around like you're heading out of there back toward town, and it's the first road on your left, just a couple hundred yards down from where you are now. The road climbs up the hill. Then take the last cul-de-sac on the left._"

Megan snapped her phone shut. David and Colby were already running for their vehicle, and she looked at Don. "Maybe you should stay here," she said, as she took in his pale face, his quickened breathing.

"No way," he shot back, almost angrily. "I'm coming with you. Just go."

She was already starting the vehicle and she threw it into reverse and executed a sharp three-point turn, speeding down the road after Colby and David. They found the road and gunned it to the top, engines complaining at the steep ascent. The cul-de-sac was short and unpaved, just roughed in, and they pulled their vehicles in at the mouth of it, Megan's behind Colby's, and jumped from them, Colby pausing to pull a crowbar out of his vehicle.

The officer was standing at the back of the car, and as Don came up to it, he caught a faint whiff of something foul. The smell probably would have been stronger if it hadn't been so windy, but it still made his stomach lurch. They clustered around the back of it, silently, as Colby applied the crowbar and popped it open, and they took a collective breath as they looked inside. Empty, except for a large pool of rancid, congealing blood. The closed environment hadn't allowed it to evaporate, and that was what had created the smell. Don took a huge shaky breath, and tried to will his knees to stop trembling.

David was focused on the horizon, and he pointed and spoke. "Look across," he said. "You can see the construction site from here."

Colby's eyes narrowed, and he turned and trotted for his vehicle; he was certain he had some binoculars in the back.

"Sean must have set up surveillance here during the first kidnapping," said Megan. "He said in the phone call he witnessed his brother's death – he probably watched from here."

"He must have had field glasses," said the officer. "You can't see that far without them."

"I've got some," said Colby, trotting back, holding up the binoculars. He trained them on the construction buildings, and focused in. "Still looks empty." 

He handed the glasses off to Don, as Megan spoke. "I sent some men up there first thing this morning, just to do a quick double-check for the vehicle. There was still nothing there – but no wonder, the car was here." She frowned, looking around at the scrub on the hillside. "Why would Moran park here? Where would he go from here? It doesn't make sense."

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Charlie felt the hands underneath him, pulling him upward, and then the sensation of being lifted up, over a shoulder. He was moving, and he struggled to open his eyes, to breathe, then winced, shutting them again as they moved outside into the sunlight. His heart was skipping oddly, and he blacked out for a moment; then woke to the sound of the wind, the sensation of falling. He landed on his side on something soft and foul smelling, could feel earth beneath him as his eyes flickered open, then shut, and though his thoughts were hazy, he knew instinctively where he was. It was the place he'd dreamt of, so many times in the past few weeks. He was in the pit, with the dead firefighter underneath him. His breath caught in a weak sob as the first shovel of dirt landed on him. '_Please no – not alive – please. Kill me first… please…_'

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End Chapter 16


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Thanks for your reviews. Here's 17._

**Chapter 17**

Amita unlocked Charlie's office, and slipped through the door, pulling it shut behind her. It was afternoon, and she had crept out of her office, for a walk, she had told herself, although it wasn't really the reason. After the last few nights without sleep, she wasn't thinking straight; her mind had been bludgeoned into dull despair by the dread, the anxiety, barely functional. She could scarcely get through her classes, and had finally gone to Millie the night before to find someone to take them today. She had shown up to support her substitutes and give them the lecture plan, but she didn't have the strength or the will to face the students herself.

The details of the situation hadn't been released to the press, but somehow, the rumor had started that something had happened to Professor Eppes. Millie's refusal to give out any information just reinforced the rumors, and both Amita and Larry, as Charlie's closest friends, faced anything from speculative looks to outright questions. As the last two days had worn on, Amita found herself increasingly unable to deal with it, to deflect the inquiries. The lack of sleep and the stress had effectively removed her ability to cope, and worst of all was the terrible premonition that had been growing, like a malignant tumor. She had the horrible feeling that Charlie was slipping away, and all she knew at that moment was that she somehow needed a connection with him.

She drifted through the room, only half-aware of what she was doing, her hand trailing over the lip of the chalkboard, the corner of his desk. The attack on him during the Parks case had terrified her, and his refusal to drop the case had frustrated, frightened, and angered her. She knew how much it meant to him to do that work, to team with his brother on cases, but it didn't mean she understood it. She supported him, even while privately thinking that from the perspective of furthering mathematics, his time and prodigal talents could have been much better spent on research. At least, she had supported him until the work had put his life in danger. That was where she drew the line. Not that her position had done either of them any good.

She had come around to stand behind his desk, and found herself looking at a picture of the two of them, smiling, cheek-to-cheek, posing for the shot. They were sitting on the sofa in Charlie's living room, and Alan had taken the picture on a whim as he tried out a new digital camera. He had zoomed in on their faces, and it instantly had become one of Charlie's favorite photos, and hers as well. As she looked at his face, smiling into the camera, his grin impish, teasing, his dark eyes full of life and laughter, the grief hit her like a physical blow, and she sank into his chair, shaking, as a sob erupted from her. She couldn't explain it, but she felt it as surely as she felt the solid desk under her arms. He was fading; he was leaving her.

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Don took the field glasses from Colby, focusing them in as Megan spoke. He froze, her words fading away from his conscious mind, as he picked up the figures emerging from the back of the office. One was carrying a body over his shoulder, his head obscured by the body itself, but there was no doubt in Don's mind it was Sean Moran. It had to be Sean, because the body, hanging limply, lifelessly – was Charlie. "God, no," he breathed, his heart pounding painfully in his chest, unaware that Megan had stopped talking and the others were staring at him. As the body of his brother toppled into the pit, and Moran began to shovel dirt on top of it, Don was equally unaware of the animal sound that escaped him, unaware that he was thrusting the binoculars back at someone, anyone, unaware that he was running like a madman for Megan's vehicle. He had to get there, had to stop Moran. Charlie wasn't dead, couldn't be dead…

The group was frozen for a moment, as Colby grabbed the glasses from Don and jerked them to his face, turning white. "Oh damn," he said. "It's Moran – he's in back of the office -," he lowered the binoculars and started for his vehicle, not finishing the words, and as the group turned, Megan saw Don throw himself into the driver's seat of her car. "Don – no!" she yelled. "Wait!" She redirected her scream at the agents – "We've got to stop him! Don!"

Her cry was lost as Don backed the car up with a lurch, and the vehicle surged down the hill. Colby, Megan, and David piled into Colby's vehicle, and tore out behind him with a screech of tires. Megan shot an anxious glance up the road at her vehicle, as David looked sideways at Colby, who was flooring the gas pedal, lips in a tight line.

"You said you saw Moran?" said David, speaking through clenched teeth, gripping the door handle as the vehicle swayed.

Colby's face was grim, and he gave a short nod as he muscled the steering wheel through a curve. "He was out back, shoveling dirt into the pit."

The others stared at him for a moment, speechless, as the car hurtled down the road.

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Somehow, with the last ounce of his strength, Charlie managed to turn his head downward slightly, hiding his face under his good arm, to keep the dirt from falling directly on his face. It didn't matter much; as the dirt began to fill in gaps around his body and head, his oxygen supply was dwindling. It wouldn't be long…

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Don hit the bottom of the hill, and pulled the steering wheel hard to the right. Megan's car screeched as he swerved onto the highway. He could see the roadblock up ahead, and he hit the lights. He didn't wait for them to move; instead, he took the edge of the road, roaring past the three cars in line and the startled officers manning the roadblock. Once past, he swerved back onto the road, and gunned the gas, zooming for the left turn up ahead that led up to the construction site.

The highway patrol officers saw the second vehicle coming with its lights on, and tried to react, pulling the cars in line to the side of the road to let the second vehicle through. If the drivers had been just a little sharper, it might have worked, but two of them were slow to understand what the officers wanted, and even slower to pull over. The result was that both the highway and the side of the road were effectively blocked. Colby never slowed. "Hang on," he shouted, as he jerked the wheel to the right, sending the vehicle bounding through the scrub alongside the road. It bounced hard, and nearly went over, but Colby managed to keep it upright. Moments later, they were past the roadblock and back on the highway, but they'd lost precious seconds. Don had already turned up the road to the construction site.

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Charlie could feel the dirt hitting his body, and with each sensation, he could feel a bit more life leave him. He was getting numb, the terror and the pain dimming, along with the rest of his senses. His body seemed to be getting heavier, weighed down by earth, but his mind was growing lighter, floating up out of the pit, being pulled skyward by the Santa Ana wind. One last thought, just a wisp of one, of the faces of those dear to him – he tried to cling to it, but it soared away from him, carried like a balloon by the wind, rising toward the afternoon sun.

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Sean's head jerked up at the sound of the approaching car. For a moment, he froze; then he dropped the shovel and ran madly for the office building. He needed his things – his gun, and above all, his meth. He grabbed the gun and his backpack from the office and tore back outside, plunging into the scrub beyond the grave. He was well into the brush before he stopped, and clambered onto a sizable boulder to peer over the top of the chaparral, to see if he'd been spotted. What he saw made him stop and stare – against all odds, the agent was here - alone. He was running from a car toward the pit – perhaps he had seen his brother die after all. Maybe there was still a chance to end this here. Sean ducked and climbed down from the rock, and creeping back through the brush, readied his pistol.

Don raced madly for the pit. He shot a quick glance around, looking for Moran, but there was no time for a search. His mind, overwhelmed by shock, was fixed on one objective – Charlie. He reached the pit, and barely breaking stride, he jumped into it, pawing frantically at the dirt, calling his brother's name. There were only a few inches of earth on top of him, and Don found a limb, lifeless, limp, floppy, and pulled Charlie's body out, heaving it up to the edge of the pit, and clambered out after him, his stomach churning at the foul smell, trying to ignore the sensation of another body under his feet.

"God, no," he moaned, checking for a pulse with a badly shaking hand. "Charlie…" He could feel nothing, and he put his face next his brother's, trying to feel a breath. Nothing. _God, God, no..._ A huge overpowering surge of grief hit him, and he gathered Charlie's limp body in his arms, whispering his name brokenly.

Sean had crept forward in the brush; he was nearly to a point where he had a clear shot when he heard the second car, tires sliding on gravel. He groaned in frustration as he heard the car doors slam, and saw the three agents running toward the brothers. He tried to aim, but he was jerking and twitching so badly, he knew he'd never hit his target – he probably couldn't even hit the side of the office building from here. The infernal shaking meant he had to be closer - much closer. The agent was facing him, his brother in his arms, and Sean hesitated, weighing the chances of getting off a lucky shot against the fact that the sound would alert the others to his presence. Finally, he dredged up a scrap of sanity and backed off, creeping back into the brush like a hyena. He would make his way to the car, and find a way to get Agent Eppes later. At least he'd had the satisfaction of seeing the man mourn his younger brother. Nodding to himself, jerking and twitching, he slunk off through the scrub.

The agents sprinted for the back of the house, pistols drawn. Colby peeled off from the group and in through the back door of the office, to check for Moran. David and Megan had reached Don, and scanned the area around him, pistols raised, before turning their attention to him. He was kneeling with his back to them, rocking slightly back and forth, holding Charlie's torso to his chest, and as they came around to face him, they could see silent tears streaming down his face. His eyes were trained on the brush in front of him, but they were blank, unfocused, blinded by grief. Charlie's limp body was covered in dust; the wind had dried the earth, making it powdery, and the light-colored film of grit made him look gray, like a ghost. It was everywhere, his face, his hair - except for where it had turned dark from the oozing blood on his T-shirt, and a small blotch or two, where Don's tears had fallen, turning dust to mud. The sight of either of them alone was enough to stun the agents – neither of them had ever seen Don come even close to tears, and Charlie… the net effect shocked them into silence for a moment.

David was the first to come to his senses, a jolt of desperate rage shooting through him. Charlie couldn't be dead – he refused to believe it. He dropped next to Don, and felt for the pulse in Charlie's neck. Don's eyes finally moved, and came to rest on him. "I checked," he said, his voice a hoarse rasp.

David ignored him, frozen, intent. He had noticed immediately that Charlie was still warm, and he thought he felt… "I've got a pulse!" he exclaimed. "It's weak, but…," He put his arms around Charlie, trying to pull him gently away from Don, who just stared at him dazedly. David shot a desperate look at Megan, who was looking at him skeptically. He knew what she was thinking – that he'd taken this too personally and was refusing to believe reality. Well damn it, he _was_ refusing to believe, because there was a pulse – it was barely there but he'd felt it. "Don, come on," he said, pulling harder, his voice filled with urgency. "Let me check."

Don relinquished his grip, reluctantly, and watched, unmoving, his eyes dead, as David laid Charlie on his back, and tried to find the pulse again, putting an ear to his chest. The wind was too loud; it whistled in his free ear, and with a look of impatience, he stuffed a finger in his ear, and listened. Breathing sounds, a heartbeat – they were there, but so faint and irregular that he could barely make them out. His own heart pounded in return. "He's alive!" he said, the words exploding, his voice harsh, emotional. "We need an ambulance!"

They stared back at him, hope trying to claw its way through their consciousness, and Megan fumbled for her phone with a shaking hand. "We should try to get some more air into him," said David, "- modified CPR, without the chest compressions."

Don, suddenly galvanized, scrambled to position himself at Charlie's head. He situated Charlie's jaw; his hand buried in the dusty curls, and blew in a breath filled with oxygen and desperation, as Megan said into the phone, "This is Agent Reeves. I need some support up at the construction site, and an ETA on an ambulance."

Colby emerged from the back door of the building to find Megan on the phone, bent slightly away from the wind, and Don engaged in CPR, as David anxiously listened to Charlie's chest. He ran toward them, and as he did, the thought crossed his mind that those two men had saved his life, not too long ago, by the same method. The thought and the sight generated an odd feeling, but he didn't have time to examine it - it was swallowed by a mix of concern and hopefulness, as he realized that maybe, Charlie was still alive.

David and Don paused for a moment, and David put an ear to Charlie's chest again. "It's helping – his pulse is a little stronger, but still weak. We've got to get him to a hospital."

Megan had pulled the phone from her ear, her words choppy, terse. "They just pulled two ambulances from the fire area to transport injuries. There are two more on their way out, but the ETA is twenty-five minutes."

Don blew another breath in Charlie's mouth, and said brusquely, "We can't wait that long. It takes less time than that to get to San Bernardino. We'll take him in Colby's vehicle." His face was grim, but his eyes had recovered conviction, a sense of purpose.

David listened again to Charlie's chest. "We need to go now. The extra air is helping, but every time we stop he starts fading again."

"Go then," said Megan, urgently. "Colby can drive – you and Don can ride in the back with Charlie. I'll stay and secure the scene."

Colby shot her a concerned glance. "You shouldn't be here without backup. Moran could still be here somewhere."

" We don't have another option, and there will be troopers here in a few minutes," she said firmly. "Go."

David and Don scrambled to their feet, and they and Colby lifted Charlie's limp body, and ran, stumbling awkwardly sideways toward Colby's vehicle. Megan watched them go, her heart contracting painfully in a silent prayer.

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End Chapter 17


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Sorry this is so late- got sidetracked by a trip to Pittsburgh. Happy Easter, to everyone who celebrates it._

**Chapter 18**

Don could sense the scenery whipping by, but he didn't spare it a glance; his eyes were glued to Charlie's face. Charlie lay with his head in Don's lap, and the rest of his body draped sideways, lying partially on David, who sat next to Don in the back seat. Don puffed another breath into Charlie's mouth, feeling his brother's ribcage expand. He had a finger on Charlie's neck, and he could feel the pulse answer with a slightly stronger beat after each breath, and then flag, dropping off quickly to feather-faint rapid beats. Without the added breaths, Don had no doubt that Charlie's weak breathing would drop off entirely, and his heartbeat along with it. He delivered another breath, and felt anxiously for the pulse to strengthen. "Come on, Buddy," he murmured.

He dropped his head for another breath, trying not to look at the close-up view of Charlie's left shoulder, clumsily wrapped with strips of cloth, layered right over his T-shirt. It was a mess of crusted dried blood, with more oozing out than before; moving him had apparently opened the wound a little. Don couldn't see the bullet hole, but judging from where the blood was coming, it appeared to be right at the joint. As he lifted his head, his eyes fell on Charlie's face, dirt-smudged and oddly peaceful. '_Wake up_!' Don wanted to scream. '_Fight it, come on!_'

Colby was on his cell phone, one hand manipulating the steering wheel, as they reached the outer limits of San Bernardino. He flipped it shut and found Don's eyes in the rearview mirror. "That was Megan. She made some phone calls – she got a recommendation to take him to Loma Linda University Hospital instead of San Bernardino Community – it's bigger, more cutting edge medicine, more specialists. It's just few miles further south, but it's actually quicker to get there – more of the road is highway."

Don nodded his agreement, but his voice was rough with tension. "Yeah, just hurry."

Colby gave him a short nod in return. "She's calling your dad."

Don said nothing; instead, he bent to give Charlie another breath. He knew why Megan had taken the liberty of doing that; she thought there was a good chance that Charlie wasn't going to make it, and was trying to give Alan an opportunity to get there in time. Don refused to think about that, refused to acknowledge it. Charlie was going to make it – he _had_ to make it.

Minutes later, they were at Loma Linda University. They pulled up to the ambulance entrance, lights flashing, and Colby was out of the vehicle in an instant, flagging down an intern, some medics and a gurney. By the time they got to the vehicle, Don was out of the back seat, Charlie draped in his arms. He lifted him onto the gurney, and the medics took off at a run. Don trotted next to the intern behind them, explaining the situation, his eyes on the gurney ahead of him, glued to Charlie. They burst through the outer doors and the intern held up a hand to halt them from proceeding through to the treatment area, instead pointing to a short hallway that led to the waiting area. Don stopped short, watching the gurney disappear, and realized that he didn't even have a good idea what the intern looked like; he hadn't set eyes on him once while he was talking.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned his head to look at Colby, who jerked his head toward the hallway. The agent was saying something, but it didn't register. Don trudged alongside him and David, moving automatically, the recent events playing through his head, numbing his conscious thought. In his mind, he kept reliving finding the arm in the dirt, pulling Charlie's body from the hole, like a ghoulish gravedigger. A shudder ran down his spine as they found seats, and he sat stiffly, like a zombie, staring in front of him with sightless eyes. Colby and David exchanged a glance over his head, and sat too, the three of them silent, waiting.

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The attending physician, Dr. Toren, pushed through the doors of the treatment room, and an intern was immediately at his side. "We've got a GSW to the shoulder – the injury occurred nearly three days ago. Pulse is weak and fast, respirations faint and uneven, also fast – 22 breaths per minute, blood pressure 68 over 30. There has been some blood loss, but not enough to explain the BP readings. Elevated temps – all of it indicates infection."

The bindings on Charlie's shoulder were being cut through and removed by another intern, and Dr. Toren stepped over him, examining the wound, lifting the shoulder slightly. "No exit wound," he said. "The bullet is still in there. We need an x-ray - AP and Axial views. We need to stabilize him and after that, we need to clean him up for surgery – he's filthy. Start with intubation."

He looked at the intern, who had begun positioning Charlie's head and airway. "What took them three days to get him here?"

The intern shook his head. "I don't know. He came in with three FBI agents – one of them said he was his brother." He peered down Charlie's throat as he positioned the tube. "I'm in."

"Get an IV started," ordered Dr. Toren. "You can finish cleaning and prepping after you've got that going. We need blood work and those X-rays as fast as we can get them. Let's move it, now." He looked at the other intern. "Get Dr. Samuels down here – I think we've got a case of septic shock."

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It took Alan an hour to get to Loma Linda, even though much of it was a straight shot east on Highway 10. He had gotten little information from Megan; other than Charlie was found unconscious, with no other apparent injuries other than the gunshot wound to his shoulder, which Alan already knew about. That was bad enough, but it wasn't as horrible as Alan might have guessed when he first heard her speak. There wasn't anything else to account for the note in her voice – a note that Alan couldn't quite place, but that petrified him, nonetheless. Somehow, nearly halfway there, he thought to call Amita.

He loped into the waiting area to find Don, flanked by Colby and David. For some reason, the sight of his oldest, there in one piece, drew a breath of relief from him. Maybe it was the thought that Don had been there when Charlie was found; which put him in the possible vicinity of the madman who was trying to kill both of his boys. Whatever the reason, he was unaccountably relieved, until he got a look at Don's expression, and saw the residue of horror still in his eyes. It made him think of the note in Megan's voice, and fear made him blurt out, "What is it? How is he?"

Don shook his head mutely, his throat clutching, and Colby answered. "We haven't heard yet. We asked at the desk a few minutes ago, they said they'd try to get an update."

Alan's eyes scanned their faces; taking in the grim line of Colby's mouth, the brooding look and drawn brows on David's face, and the dull look of shock in Don's eyes. His heart started thumping, and it stayed that way as he sat next to Don with a sideways glance. Don didn't return it; he sat motionless, hunched with tension and misery. Alan looked at Colby, who didn't look any more inclined to talk, and so he just sat, joining their silent, brooding vigil.

About twenty minutes after he'd arrived, two doctors pushed through the doors into the waiting area. Alan's heart lurched uncomfortably as one of them called, "For Charles Eppes?"

He held up a hand and, and the two doctors strode toward them. "I'm his father," Alan said, stepping forward, and they stopped in front of him, with a glance at the men beside him. "My son, Don," said Alan, "and family friends."

One of the doctors raised an eyebrow at the FBI windbreakers, but proceeded, extending a hand to Alan. "I'm Doctor Samuels, the staff infectious disease specialist, and this is Dr. Toren, your son's ER physician. We've got him cleaned up a bit, have started him on an IV and have him intubated. We're prepping him for surgery; we'll need your permission on some forms."

"The surgery's for his shoulder?" asked Alan.

Samuels nodded. "Yes, and we would like to insert a pulmonary artery catheter for hemodynamic monitoring. Before you agree to these procedures, you need to know that your son is in critical condition. He is suffering from septic shock, caused by infection from his shoulder spreading to his bloodstream. It causes very low blood pressure, and reduced oxygen flow to the body. The heart and lungs try to compensate by speeding up, but the lack of pressure in the body makes it hard to push the oxygenated blood. It is a very serious and life-threatening condition."

Samuels paused for a moment to let that sink in. From the paleness of the man's face in front of him, he knew that he was grasping what he'd told him. He continued. "Ordinarily, we would postpone surgery for someone in this condition, but in this case, we have no choice. Part of the treatment for septic shock is to identify and treat the source of the infection as quickly as possible, which in this case is the shoulder injury. The bullet is still lodged there, and we need to remove it. Following that, we will insert a Swan Ganz catheter through his jugular, and run it through the heart into the pulmonary artery. We use that to monitor pressure in his heart – specifically the left atrium. It will help guide our treatment regimen after the surgery. We have him started on broad spectrum antibiotics until we determine the particular pathogen that is causing the infection; then we will change that to something that will target it more effectively. We have also started him on epinephrine to help boost his blood pressure. We need to get your permission for those treatments and the surgical procedures."

Alan nodded, his voice hoarse. "Of course." He cleared his throat. "So these are – standard procedures, then."

Samuels looked at him with sympathy, and his voice softened. "Standard, yes – although there is nothing standard really, when it comes to treating septic shock." He took a breath, and looked at Alan directly. "I need to be straight with you – he's in very bad shape; he was barely clinging to life when they brought him in. I won't say that he is not going to make it – obviously if we thought that, we wouldn't be putting him through these procedures, but you should prepare yourself."

Samuels put a steadying hand on Alan's shoulder, and it felt heavy, as though it was going to push him through the floor. His legs were fighting to hold him up. He somehow managed a 'thank you,' and dimly heard the doctor telling him that someone would be out with the paperwork.

He heard a familiar voice and turned automatically toward the entrance, to see Amita hurrying toward them, hope and relief on her face, and as he looked sideways, saw the almost catatonic look in Don's eyes as he sank into a chair. As Alan struggled to regain coherent thought, he knew, with a sinking heart, that he was going to be the one who would wipe that look off her face, who would replace it with the heartache that the rest of them felt.

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Alan watched through the window of Charlie's room in the ICU, his eyes on the still figure in the bed. It was over four hours later, and Charlie had just been brought to his room. Amita stood by his side, quiet, her eyes rimmed with red, choking back an occasional sniffle. Don alternated between watching the still figure for brief periods, his eyes, dark, intense, and then pacing a short distance away, and back. He hadn't spoken since Alan had gotten there; instead stewing in a sea of silence that had dark undercurrents of emotion roiling beneath its surface. Alan had honestly been too immersed in what was going on with Charlie to take much notice, but now that his youngest was out of surgery, he was becoming aware that Don was struggling mightily with what had happened. As soon as they had a chance to see Charlie, Alan vowed to sit Don down and talk.

The ICU allowed the standard visiting time for intensive care, 10 minutes on the hour, every hour, although family was allowed in the hallway outside the room, or in a nearby waiting area, around the clock. Although Amita wasn't officially family, Alan had explained her relationship with Charlie, and the nurse, who seemed on the surface very brusque, had surprisingly granted her 'family' status, and had let her stay. The grateful look that Amita gave Alan almost made up for the expression on her face when he'd told her what Charlie's situation was. Almost, but not quite.

Another nurse had completed organizing the area around Charlie's bed, and she stepped out with a nod. "You can go in now – you can split up the ten minutes among you if you like, but only one at a time." Amita put a hand on Alan's arm, gently pushing him, indicating wordlessly for him to go first, and Alan stepped through the door.

The first thing that struck him was how still and pale his son looked. His dark curls, which appeared dusty, and the stubble on his face, stood out in stark contrast to his skin, which was entirely devoid of color, the eyelids translucent-looking with a faint blue cast. The image was so striking; it overshadowed the daunting appearance of the equipment around him, but only for a moment. Alan's eyes traveled to the tube taped to the side of Charlie's mouth, to the Swan Ganz catheter protruding from the tape on his neck, to his shoulder, swathed in bandages. An IV line snaked down from a pole, and wires from the electrodes attached to his son's chest ran up to join the assortment of digital outputs, the numbers staring back like red blinking eyes. The only sound was an occasional soft beep, and the draw and hiss of the artificial respirator. It seemed wrong somehow; the stillness. His son was in the fight of his life, and the quiet seemed discordant, ominous.

He gently pushed aside an errant curl, and then bowed his head in prayer, brief, but filled with a desperation that only a parent could know, and then turned for the door, his throat tight, eyes watering. Amita was there waiting, and Alan gave her a gentle touch on the shoulder as she slipped past him in the doorway. His eyes met Don's, and then traveled over his shoulder at the sight of familiar figures, approaching.

Megan, David, and Colby were moving toward them down the hall, and were immediately accosted by the head nurse. Megan spoke to her briefly, flashing her badge, and Alan heard her explain that she was assigning a guard to the room, in a voice that was uncharacteristically sharp. She looked exhausted – they all did, though none of them as bad as Don. He was haggard, his eyes tormented. Alan could see dirt on his clothes and a smudge near his lips. He turned as he heard Megan's voice, and they waited as the agents crossed the floor.

They glanced inside as they gathered, taking in Charlie's still figure, Amita standing beside it facing away from them, head bent, one hand on Charlie's, the other wiping her eyes. Megan looked at Don, then at Alan. "The surgery went okay?"

Alan gave a tired nod. "They got the bullet out. The surgeon is supposed to come and explain it in detail, and I guess it got a little - ," he broke off and collected himself, managing to finish. "His heart stopped twice on the table, but they got it going again quickly both times. They said he's doing as well as can be expected."

Megan was frowning, her eyes filled with concern and sympathy, and she glanced at Don again, who was standing, Sphinx-like, his dark eyes the only sign that he acknowledged their presence. "We didn't get Moran yet. He has to be in the vicinity, and we've got men out searching on foot, but it's a large area, covered with brush. It may take a while to flush him out. In the meantime, as a precaution, I'm putting a guard on you and one on Charlie. David will stay here tonight with Charlie, and Colby will stick with you, Don, whether you stay here or decide to go home." She glanced at the two men. "You guys should probably go grab something to eat – we'll wait here until you get back."

Colby and David nodded, and with a soft, "Be right back," from Colby, and an uncertain glance from David toward Don, they turned, and headed back down the hallway. Alan had turned his eyes toward the room again, and Megan's followed his, taking in the lifeless-looking form in the bed, and the forlorn figure beside it.

Silence descended, and so it was all the more startling when Don finally spoke. Alan and Megan turned in surprise. Don's face was filled with frustration, anger, and grief; and he pointed a shaking finger at Charlie. "That-," he said, and stopped, fighting down a choke, his body trembling with barely suppressed emotion. Nearly overcome, he turned away down the hall, and then whirled and jabbed his finger toward the room again, speaking through clenched teeth. "_That_ is why I didn't want him consulting anymore." His voice broke, and he spun back around, head down, and took off down the hallway. Megan and Alan stared at him, taken aback, then at each other.

"I'm sorry," said Megan, softly. "I have to stay with him." She hurried down the hall after him, and Alan watched them go, standing motionless, helplessly in the middle of the hallway.

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End Chapter 18


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all._

**Chapter 19**

Alan desperately wanted to stay with Charlie, but as early evening turned into late, he acknowledged that his other son actually needed him more. Don was near exhaustion and needed rest, and Alan finally talked him into going home by saying he was going himself. The statement brought a look of consternation from his son; Alan surmised Don wasn't comfortable with the idea of Alan spending the night alone, and he wondered why, just briefly, until he remembered the lunatic on the loose. He didn't really think he had anything to fear from the man – Sean Moran seemed to be obsessed with his sons and had never even acknowledged that Alan existed, but if the concern convinced Don to go home with him, well, that was all right with Alan. His goal was to get Don to the Craftsman and into bed, and then, once his older son was situated, Alan planned to return to the hospital.

Amita intended to spend the night, and it didn't look to be a very comfortable one. She was planning to nap on the sofa in the waiting area and go in each hour to see Charlie. David didn't look as though he would be much company; he seemed almost as taciturn, as brooding as Don did, although Alan felt immeasurably relieved he was there. There was a fire in the agent's eyes that said he'd die before he let anyone near Charlie again, and he'd take whoever the potential threat might be with him.

The car ride home started out silently, with Colby following in his vehicle. It was highway most of the way, and at that hour, the traffic was relatively light. It was something that Alan was devoutly grateful for, about halfway into the trip, when Don started talking. He wasn't sure later how he kept his car on the road.

Don had been slumped in his seat up until that point, his eyes on the highway ahead. When he started to speak, he didn't look at Alan, he kept his eyes forward, almost as if he was talking to himself. "Did Megan tell you how we found him?"

Alan shot him a glance, and looked back at the road. "No. I knew you were looking up in the area where you found him before, that's all."

"He was at the same place – the construction site. We sent men up there twice, but there was no car, no sign of them. One team even went inside and looked around, but they didn't see them. Megan said afterward they found two large empty boxes in a corner, one with traces of blood inside. They think they must have been hiding there the whole time."

"Hiding? Why would Charlie go along with that – why wouldn't he have made some noise - let them know he was in there?"

Don's voice was dull, heavy. "He probably couldn't. They found a Taser and a rag doused with chloroform. It's likely that Moran used those to subdue him in the first place, and he may have used them again there, or maybe Charlie was already too sick by that time – either way, he was probably unconscious." Alan felt his heart drop at the words, and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. Images of his son's struggle against Moran – how it must have been, rose in his mind, and he pushed them back with a shudder.

Don fell silent for a moment, and there was nothing but the sound of the tires on the highway, and the light constant noise of air against speeding glass and metal. He spoke again in a tired voice, which held just a hint of bafflement. "He lied."

Alan glanced at him sharply. "Who?"

"Charlie. I told you that Moran called us on the cell phone, and I talked to Charlie."

Alan nodded slowly; Don had told him of the phone call. He remembered the hope that the call had generated; the feeling of relief to know that Charlie was still alive. "Yes."

"When I asked Charlie if he knew where he was, he said 'no.' He had to have known where he was, but he lied."

Alan felt his heart twist at the thought, but he kept his voice steady. "Maybe he was afraid Moran would hurt him."

"I don't think so. I don't think Moran could hear what we were talking about – Charlie could at least have said 'yes,' instead of 'no,' and Moran wouldn't have been any wiser. Plus, at the end of the conversation, Charlie warned me it was a trap – if he was concerned about getting hurt, he wouldn't have done that. He lied, just so I wouldn't show up. We could have gotten troopers up there within minutes and pinned them down, if only he'd said something. Even if he'd said, 'yes' instead of 'no,' – if that was all he said, we'd probably have figured it out. We could have had him out of there, gotten him to a hospital sooner…" His voice trailed off into silence again.

"You can't say that for sure," responded Alan. "If they'd surrounded the place, you don't know what Moran would have done – he isn't rational. The outcome could have been worse."

Don lifted a shoulder in a shrug, his voice bitter. "I don't know how it could get much worse than this." He finally turned to look at Alan, anguish in his face. "When we found them, Moran was in the act of burying him behind the building – alive." His voice cracked. "I had to dig him out of a grave – I thought he was dead-," he stopped, overcome, unable to go any further. Alan stared back at him in horror, and the blare of a horn made him gather enough of his senses to pull over to the side of the road. Colby eased in behind them, and turned on his lights as a warning to oncoming traffic.

They just sat there for a moment, in a silence so heavy it was crushing. A tap on the window brought them out of it, and Alan turned to see Colby's face, quizzical and filled with concern, at the window. As he rolled down the window, Colby asked, "Everything okay in here?"

Alan cleared his throat, but his voice was still ragged. "Yes, thank you – we're – we're fine." Colby nodded and stepped back to his vehicle, and Alan turned his attention to the road again, and pulled out when he had an opening, Colby swinging in behind him. They didn't speak for the rest of the way home; there weren't words that seemed adequate.

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Two hours later, Alan crept downstairs in the darkness. He'd made sandwiches, had gotten Don to take a sleeping pill, and then pretended to retire for the night. As soon as he was sure his eldest was sleeping, he made his way down to the living room, tiptoeing so as not to wake Colby, who had camped out on the sofa. He jumped as Colby's voice cut quietly through the dimness. "Heading back out?"

"Yes," said Alan. He'd thought Colby was sleeping, but now that he looked toward him, he could make out his profile against the dim light coming through the window, and the glint of an eye, watchful in the darkness. "I'm sorry if I woke you."

"No problem," responded Colby quietly. "I learned how to be a light sleeper in Afghanistan. I take it Don's asleep?"

"Yes. I got him to take a sleeping pill. He's – well, just watch out for him, okay?"

"You know I will. Don't worry about anything here – just be careful driving back."

"I will – and Colby?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

Alan let himself quietly out the front door, and into the night. It was midnight, and he had an hour drive back to the hospital. He knew it made more sense to stay home and get some rest; there was nothing he could do for Charlie other than what the hospital staff was doing for him. However, he also knew if the unthinkable happened, and Charlie slipped away during the night, he would never forgive himself if he weren't there, by his side. It wasn't a conscious thought – it was too painful to even contemplate, but it was what drove him back out into the night, and onto the highway once more.

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Amita looked down at Charlie, and softly caressed his cheek with the back of her hand. Even that simple gesture brought a stab of pain to her heart; she couldn't bear the thought of never being able to do that again, to hold him. When they'd started dating, she wasn't sure how she'd felt about him, other than there was a profound physical attraction. His smile, his dark eyes, his mop of curly hair – all of it made her heart skip. As they'd started to date, she began to find out other things, not all of them good. He could be extremely stubborn, headstrong, sometimes impulsive, and often immersed himself in work to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. When he was in search of a potential solution, the quest for it was his God – nothing mattered – not other people, not even the basic fundamentals like food or sleep. That also often meant things that were important to her also didn't seem to matter to him, and it had created some conflict between them in the beginning. Eventually she realized that it wasn't that he didn't care – he did, but his zeal for the current project was working on eclipsed everything else.

It was a characteristic that she grudgingly had to admit was sometimes admirable, and as time went on she found many others. His unflagging loyalty, his generosity, his genuineness – he was guileless, open with everyone. He didn't have a large circle of people that he was close to, but if a person made that circle, Charlie gave himself to them unconditionally – she had no doubt he would give his life for the people dear to him. He was complex, and hard to understand sometimes, but that, she supposed, was life with a genius. Once she accepted him for what he was, and stopped feeling personally threatened when he inadvertently ignored her, their relationship had blossomed. She had a fulfilling career of her own, and she learned to use that time for her own work – something that Charlie fully supported. She was in love with him, she realized, in every way – in mind, body, and soul, with his strengths and his flaws alike. She couldn't bear the idea of a world without him.

Her eyes stung a bit at the thought, but she'd cried so much already, her over-worked tear ducts struggled to produce tears. The horrible lump in her chest was still there, though, and as she gently smoothed her hand against his cheek again, she choked back a sob.

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Don thrashed against the covers, and sat upright suddenly, his chest heaving. He'd been dreaming he was in a deep pit, digging, trying to reach Charlie through mounds of dirt. Every time he managed to get through it, to touch him, Charlie sank deeper into the dust, and Don had to dig harder to find him. Finally he'd lost him entirely, and he woke as he plowed in panic against his blankets. It took him a minute to for the dream to recede, and he realized that morning light was streaming through the windows. With a muttered oath, he sprang out of bed. He'd overslept – they both had. They should have been at the hospital by now.

He jumped in the shower, shaved and dressed hurriedly. On the way downstairs, he paused and knocked at his father's bedroom door, and pushed it open just a bit when he didn't get a response. He was already filled with an unexplainable impatience, and when he looked in and saw the unmade bed, he swore again, softly. Why hadn't Alan gotten him up?

Downstairs, he strode into the kitchen to find Colby seated at the kitchen table, his elbows on the tabletop, his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. His blue eyes took in Don's scowl as he realized that his father wasn't there, his sharp movements as he headed toward the coffeepot. Colby kept his voice purposely even, calm. "I made coffee, I hope you don't mind."

"Why didn't he wake me up?" demanded Don. "What time did he leave?"

"About an hour after you'd gone up to bed," said Colby.

"Great," muttered Don. "That's just great. He cons me into going home, and then he takes off."

"Face it, man, you needed the rest." Colby eyed Don's arm. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing a patchwork of colored bruises on his left arm. "I've never seen an arm that looked that bad, that wasn't broken."

Don sighed and sat down across from him with his own mug. "Did anyone call?"

Colby shook his head. "I figure no news is good news, right?" He looked at Don, who was sipping at his coffee with drawn brows. "So, did you get back to sleep okay?"

Don blinked at him. "What?"

Colby raised an eyebrow. "You don't remember getting up?"

Don frowned and shook his head. "No. I was up?"

Colby grunted softly. "Yeah. I heard a noise upstairs so I went up to check. You were standing in the hallway, at one of the bedroom doors – I think it was Charlie's room. I couldn't see who it was at first – you scared the hell out of me. You mumbled something about looking for Charlie – then you turned toward your room and went back in. I'm guessing you went back to sleep – you don't remember that?"

Don looked a bit nonplussed, and he tried to hide it with a scowl as he looked away. "Probably the sleeping pill," he mumbled, fighting down a mixture of uneasiness and embarrassment. He had the unsettling feeling there was more to it than that, but he thrust it aside, and stood, taking a big swig of coffee before he plunked down his mug. "You ready to go? We can grab breakfast on the way."

Colby took a last sip of his own coffee, and watched him push through the door, his blue eyes speculative. "Sure."

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Don wasn't in the mood for food, but when they went through the drive-through, Colby complained so much about having to answer to Alan if Don didn't eat anything, that Don ordered just to appease him. The thought that his father had the sturdy agent beside him running scared brought just a ghost of a smile to his face. The food, however, didn't sit well, his stomach was in a knot, and it only got worse when his cell phone rang. When he answered, it was his father on the line, advising him he should probably get back to the hospital. Don's heart lurched and he pressed for a reason, but Alan wouldn't give him one – he told him not to break any speed limits but that he should come soon.

He found his father, Amita, and Larry in the waiting area. Larry had just arrived before Don and Colby, and looked positively chipper next to Alan and Amita, but his brow was fixed in a permanent wrinkle of concern. His expression was disconcerting, but it was the frightened look on Alan's and Amita's faces that hit Don in the gut. "What?" he asked, as soon as he reached them, his heart and stomach doing strange gymnastics that threatened to bring up his breakfast. "What's going on?"

Alan was silent, but Amita spoke, a tremor in her voice. "The alarm keeps going off on his heart pressure monitor. They keep adjusting the medication, and it stops for awhile, but then it goes off again – the pressure keeps dropping. They just increased the dose again – they said it's the maximum they can give him."

Don looked from one face to another, his heart rate starting to accelerate. "So what does that mean? Do they try another medication – what?"

Alan shook his head, and stepped forward, pulling Don aside. He spoke quietly, his voice cracking from the despair inside. "They've already put him on a combination of antibiotics – they said they are showing signs of fighting the infection, but the improvement is slow. The drug they've been increasing is one that they use to increase his blood pressure – epinephrine. They just started him on another medication, but it's basically the same class of drug – they really don't expect it to work any better. The doctor just spoke to us. They've done all they can do – we can only wait, and hope that there will be enough improvement in the infection in time to offset the drop in blood pressure."

Don stared at him. "There's got to be something else – some equipment or something…,"

Alan shook his head, his eyes filled with agony. "At this point, Donnie, there's just prayer." He was silent for a moment, then he said, "You should go in at the next visiting period, spend some time with him. I don't know how many more we'll get. They said they'd call us in immediately, if…" His voice trailed off, and he put a hand over his face, his eyes closing in grief.

As if summoned, the head nurse appeared at the waiting room entrance, her troubled, sympathetic gaze sweeping the room and landing on the small group. "Anyone here for Eppes," she said, "please come with me."

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End Chapter 19


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Sean Moran peered out from the scrub, narrowing his eyes against a gust of wind. Once he had decided to run, he'd moved quickly, scuttling through the undergrowth like a crab. His main concern had been helicopters; he had no way of knowing that the winds that day were too fierce, and all of them were grounded. Because of that fear, he kept to the thicker, taller clumps of chaparral, to have some place to dive into if he felt he needed to hide.

He started out moving northeast, and after a couple of hours, he intersected the highway. It was a deserted stretch of road with no buildings, like much of the highway in that area, and he scurried across, his heart hammering, clutching his backpack. Once on the other side, he began to work his way back south, toward the car. Two and a half hours later, he was skulking through the scrub up the hillside toward the housing development, panting from the climb. He stared in confusion as he got to the top of hill and looked into the cul-de-sac. He thought he was in the right cul-de-sac – he looked to his left, and his right, and then realized he was – but his car was gone. His heart plummeted, and then rage rushed through him. He almost screamed aloud, but the thought lurking in the back of his brain that there were probably searchers out there stifled the cry.

Instead, he swore softly, and ducked back down in the scrub, his head jerking. Without a car, he would be forced to hike out. He wanted to go forward, which was south – he would need to cross the development road to do that, and then climb an even higher portion of ridge on the other side. Once over it, the land would gradually descend as it approached the outlying parts of Arrowhead Mills. Beyond that was San Bernardino, and a chance to disappear into a populated area, and find a phone.

He felt instinctively it wasn't wise to go to his right. That would take him down the ridgeline back toward the highway and the roadblock, paralleling the development road. If there were searchers in the vicinity, they might be waiting along it. By the same token, he was afraid to go straight across here, in case anyone was stationed near where his car had been. Backwards was not an option, with the fire to the north, there was no way out that way. He did the only thing he could, and moved to his left, east, further up the ridgeline. Once he was well past the end of the development road, he would turn south, cross the ridge, and start downward toward Arrowhead Mills.

It took him several hours to get to the outskirts of the development, and when he did, he realized he needed to wait until night; there were patrol cars cruising the streets, no doubt looking for him. He was frantic with thirst, and as night fell, the first thing he did was find a house with a hose hooked up in the back, and turning it on low, he took a long drink. Then he slunk off into the brush along the east side of the development, skirting outlying houses, moving south. Here and there, he saw a car in a driveway, but as exhausted as he was, he fought down the temptation to try to steal one. He had a better, safer way to get a ride, if he could get to a phone.

By dawn, he had made it to an outlying section of San Bernardino, and by midmorning, nearly ready to drop; he saw a pay phone on an outside wall of a gas station. He rummaged in his backpack for money and tossed back a hit of meth as he lifted the receiver. It was early, at least for the person he was trying to reach, and he knew he'd probably get an earful of swearing, but he called the one contact he had left, Ramon, the Latino gang member who had helped him set the fires. Ramon's surly voice came on the line, and Sean grinned as the meth coursed through him. This was not over yet, not by a long shot. He was resurrected; he was invincible.

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The first thing Don was aware of, as he moved numbly with the rest of them toward Charlie's room; was the whine of the monitor. He moved past David at the door, and vaguely sensed him follow them into the room. A doctor was there, the attending doctor in the ICU that morning, a slight man of Asian descent who Don didn't recognize. The doctor stepped over to the monitor and turned down the sound, but a blinking light remained, along with a digital reading, which Don assumed was the pressure inside Charlie's heart.

He dimly heard Dr. Zhang introduce himself, and explain that Charlie's blood pressure had dropped yet again, despite the drug. It was currently hovering just below the warning point on the monitor. There were more hissing noises than he remembered from before, and he realized that large cuffs had been placed around Charlie's arms and legs, that were periodically expanding and contracting with a soft rush of air, in an attempt to help his body move the blood through his veins. The sibilant sounds joined the soft intake and whoosh from the artificial respirator. Charlie's chest moved in and out, the cuffs expanded and contracted, everything pulsing, moving, and in the center of it, his brother lay still, pale, lifeless.

Don still seemed to have a problem with his hearing, with his legs. He stood there, rooted in place, and listened as Dr. Zhang explained, his voice coming as if from a distance, that they were welcome to stay as long as it took. The doctor clearly expected the downward trend to continue, and gently told them that although the warning tone had stopped, he had merely turned down the sound. As he spoke, the number on the monitor dropped another digit. He gave them a look of sympathy, and stepped out quietly, and Don watched as if in a trance, as Amita collapsed, sobbing. Larry stepped over to her and guided her to a chair, and stood with one tentative hand on her shoulder, as she rocked back and forth slightly, her face in her hands.

Don's gaze shifted, and he picked up David's face, outwardly set in stone, but with deep pain in his dark eyes, and Colby, his blue eyes a pale image of his partner's. Don's breath hitched just a little as he saw Alan step toward the bed, smoothing the dark curls back, and gently lean forward and kiss Charlie's forehead. It was that gesture which finally unfettered his feet, and Don found himself moving slowly to Charlie's bedside, across from his father. He took Charlie's hand, pale and cool, as the voice inside his head began its protest, as if from far away, but growing louder, and closer. _This isn't happening, this isn't happening…_

His eyes moved to his father, taking in his grief-stricken face, the tears glistening on his cheeks. _This isn't happening…_ His gaze traveled downward, back to Charlie, his face so peaceful, so pale, and he squeezed his hand reflexively. A memory flooded his brain, then another. A tickle fight with six-year-old Charlie, convulsed on the sofa in a helpless fit of giggles, as Don poked at him, laughing just as hard. Eight-year-old Charlie, watching him from the bleachers at a Little League game, his eyes shining with awe and adoration. Eleven-year-old Charlie, standing on the front porch, his shoulders drooping dejectedly, as Don drove off with his friends – his first trip out after getting his driver's license. Somewhere between eight and eleven, Charlie had insisted on cutting off his curls, and Don vividly remembered the picture – the slight figure with short dark hair, his eyes and nose too big for his face – those eyes filled with otherworldly intensity, even at that age. Just as vividly, he remembered coming back later for Charlie, and the way his face lit up when Don asked him if he wanted to go for a ride of his own. They'd gone to get ice cream, and he remembered the way that Charlie grinned at him over the top of a huge mound of strawberry ice cream – and the gratitude in his eyes.

Out of the corner of his eye, Don saw the monitor flicker. He didn't look at what the number was, but the flicker told him it had changed yet again. He didn't want to look. It was ironic, he reflected; that his brother's last moments were being tracked and documented by numbers. _This can't be happening…_

He squeezed Charlie's hand again, as his mind drifted back into the past. Thirteen-year- old Charlie, draped in a cap and gown at graduation. He was small for his age, and graduating five years early. Even the smallest gown was ridiculously big on him; he looked supremely out of place on the stage. Don could see the people pointing and murmuring, impressed and amazed by the prodigy. Don had felt like an afterthought – he'd had to work harder at his studies than Charlie – it was more of an accomplishment for him to be there, but Charlie eclipsed him completely. He'd felt resentment, but he'd felt pride, too. The kid that everyone was pointing at was his brother – _his_ brother.

They were never really what he'd call close before then, but then came a series of years where they drifted apart even further. Charlie went off to Princeton, he'd left home that fall before Don, and he could still remember the awkward good-bye. He'd remembered hugging his mother, and turning to see Charlie standing there, waiting for him. Don knew he was excited about going – he'd babbled about it constantly until the week before he left. The babble had dropped off precipitously as the time to leave neared and nerves set in. That apprehension was apparent in Charlie's face as he stood there next to the car, waiting for a good-bye hug which ended up as a quick one-armed embrace, with both of them stepping back, embarrassed, not really sure of what to say to each other.

The first three years of Princeton seemed like a blur – Charlie came back in the summer, as did Don, but Don had moved on, busy with his own life, his own friends. He hadn't really paid attention to what Charlie did during the summer breaks, he was sure it wasn't much other than reading math tomes and working on the chalkboards in the garage, some of it work on the Eppes Convergence. He'd assumed that Charlie's preoccupation came from the fact that standing in front of a chalkboard was what he really wanted to do above all else, but in retrospect, he wondered how much of it was because that was all he had. He didn't have friends, and they sure as hell didn't have each other – they were firmly entrenched in their own worlds by then. It was just in the past few years that they'd really started to get to know each other.

He recalled with clarity the day he first stopped thinking of Charlie as an odd, annoying little kid. Sometime during Charlie's last year at Princeton, he'd come into his own. He'd had a long delayed growth spurt; although he was skinny and only five foot seven at the end of it; the differences were profound. His face had grown into the nose and eyes, he had to shave, but the biggest physical change was his hair – he'd grown it long again. He'd become comfortable enough by then with who he was that he'd re-adopted one of his signature features – the mop of dark curls. The Eppes Convergence had catapulted him into permanent fame – made him a math star. Along with the physical changes and the success came a quiet self-confidence. He had left that year a child, and had come back a man. The minute he stepped out of the car, Don had felt his preconceived notions of who his brother was drop away. The annoying smart little kid was no longer a mere curiosity; he was suddenly a force to be reckoned with, an adult, a bona-fide genius – and a complete stranger.

His eyes drifted to Charlie's face. Over the past four years, they'd made the journey from strangers to acquaintances to - what? Brothers, friends, to be sure; they'd come a long way, even spending some time together outside of work, but Don was keenly aware that there were miles of ground to cover yet. They still weren't nearly as close as they could be; their recent arguments and Charlie's reluctance to confide in him during the Parks case told him that. Now it was something they would never have – another unfulfilled relationship, the story of Don's life.

That was trivial, he told himself, compared to what the world was losing – minds like Charlie's were few and came along rarely. It was a complete waste – far beyond tragic. As awful as it was for society, however, he knew, with utter despair, that it was the end of a world for Amita, for his father, and above all – for him. Because in spite of the sacrifices and resentment, in spite of the feeling that he was always playing second fiddle to his younger brother, there was the knowledge that Charlie adored him, loved him no matter what. A person couldn't ask for more validation than that – to be unconditionally accepted and loved by one of the smartest people on the planet. No matter how he felt about himself, how the rest of the world looked at him, he'd always had that – and he'd come to realize that how Charlie felt about him mattered more than anything else in his life, because at some point during their long convoluted relationship, he'd gotten to the point where he felt that way about Charlie, too.

His gaze lifted, and he took in his father, tears streaming down his face, eyes closed, his lips moving silently in prayer. His eyes moved to Amita, still sitting on the edge of the chair crying, but her head was lifted now, her eyes on Charlie, her body tense, her body language screaming an agonized silent prayer of her own. Then Larry, standing next to her, looking somehow lost and vulnerable, his eyes transfixed by the monitor. Colby, solid, standing immobile with his hands clasped in front of him - and perhaps closer to Charlie than Don had realized. Finally, David, a statue carved in stone, with grief and guilt worked into every line of the sculpture. Their images were blurry, and Don realized suddenly that his eyes were filled with tears of his own. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the monitor flicker again. _This can't be happening…_

"It went up," said Larry quietly. Amita's head jerked toward him, and then her eyes found the monitor, as Alan turned.

"What?" his father asked, as Don struggled to pull his mind out of the abyss of grief, and decipher what Larry was saying.

"The pressure reading – it just went up, instead of down," Larry said. He had spoken the words without emotion, as if he didn't quite believe what he saw – or was afraid to – afraid that it was merely a momentary blip in a downward trend.

They were all staring now, eyes pulled to the readout as if by a magnet. For twenty long minutes, nothing happened; then Don's heart nearly jumped out of his chest as the number flickered again.

"Up!" crowed Alan triumphantly, and Amita rose to her feet, laughing, her voice slightly tinged with hysteria as Alan grabbed her and gave her a huge hug. Just as quickly though, the smile dropped from her face, as she anxiously turned her eyes back to the monitor, along with Larry. No one knew better than the two professors that two measurements did not make a trend – not by a long shot. It took two more long hours of watching and waiting, and ten more adjustments upward, past the warning line and beyond, before they allowed themselves to hope again. Don had found himself watching Larry and Amita's faces instead of the monitor by that time, and when their expressions began to relax and a smile came to their faces, he knew it was true_. This __wasn't__ happening… _Math didn't lie. He didn't need the doctor to tell him that his brother was in the long slow process of returning from the grave.

End Chapter 20

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	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: Thanks all, but it's not over; the brothers are still in danger..._

**Chapter 21**

Once the improvement began, the recovery was dramatic. As the antibiotics did their work and beat back the infection, Charlie's blood pressure continued to rise. By late in the day, it had gotten high enough that the cuffs could be removed from his arms, but the doctors left the ones on his legs – they were standard for all surgery patients, to help prevent blood clots. An EEG was run to evaluate brain function; one of the concerns was organ damage from the lack of oxygen, including damage to the brain. The oxygen-rich mixture coming through the respirator and the added circulatory help from the cuffs had apparently done what they were intended to do; the EEG and blood work indicators showed normal brain function and no evidence of organ damage.

Oddly, as Charlie's pulse became stronger and the circulation increased, he seemed to become more feverish. He'd had one all along, but it had been masked by the low blood flow. His face and extremities went from pale and cool to slightly flushed, and Don started to notice eye movement beneath his lids. Even though he was still unconscious, he seemed greatly improved, and an exhausted Alan and Amita had finally gone back to the Eppes house to get some rest. David had gone with them, as a precaution, intending to take Colby's position on the sofa, and to rest himself.

Colby stayed at the hospital with Don, although he could now leave Don alone with Charlie – Megan had gotten a protective detail set up for Charlie, and there was an officer present outside the room. She had joined them that morning an hour into the vigil, Larry had called her, but by the time she'd gotten there, Charlie had already turned the corner. Once it became apparent that his progress was real, she'd pulled Colby and David out for a quiet caucus, letting them know the search was still on for Moran, but they'd had no luck.

It was now close to dinnertime, and Colby's stomach was telling him so. Megan had gone back to the office hours ago, and David, Alan, Amita, and Larry had gone also, in the late afternoon. Colby shifted in his chair, looking up from his magazine, taking in Don's profile. None of the doctors or nurses had asked them to leave, to go back to the standard 10-minute visiting periods, and Don had taken advantage of it. He had been sitting there for most of the day, his eyes glued to Charlie, as if he was afraid if he didn't watch him, he would vanish somehow. After two kidnappings and Charlie's near brush with death, Colby didn't blame Don. He kept sneaking peeks at the professor himself, for the same reason.

Still, his growling digestive tract prompted the question. "Want to take a break and get something to eat? We can hit the cafeteria."

Don came out of his reverie, looked at him as if he was surprised to see him there, and then rubbed a hand over his eyes. He was actually hungry, for the first time in days, but he didn't want to leave. "No – I think I'll just stay here." He reached in his back pocket, fishing for his wallet. "Maybe you could bring me a sandwich?"

Colby stood waving him off, as Don produced a bill. "Yeah – don't worry about it – I've got it." His eye caught movement at the doorway, and he swiveled quickly. He knew there was an officer outside, but the recent events had put everyone on edge, and instinct had taken over. The two doctors in the doorway eyed him, startled, and Colby rubbed the back of his head with a bit of embarrassment. Don grinned at him slightly; his first smile since the video had been delivered, and Colby smiled back ruefully, his heart lightening at the sight. "I'll just head out then," he said unnecessarily, and slipped past the doctors as they entered.

Don recognized Samuels, but not the other doctor, and rose as the man extended a hand. "Dr. Fisher," he said. "I operated on Dr. Eppes' shoulder."

Dr. Samuels had moved over to Charlie's bedside, scanning the monitors and reviewing his charts. "He put us through quite a scare." He turned to face Don. "I have to admit, we really thought he wasn't going to make it. It was very close. Infection of this magnitude can be a touchy thing; there is still a possibility of reversal, but the signs look very encouraging. In fact, his respirations have risen to the point that we have been able to dial back the oxygen levels, and I'm considering taking him off the respirator, and putting him on an oxygen mask in its place. Has he woken at all?"

Don shook his head. "No."

Samuels pursed his lips and gave him a nod. "That's not unusual. He's still very sick, and will be extremely weak and tired when he does wake. He's dealing with the infection, some blood loss, and malnutrition. I've set the respirator on 'assist' – it will only kick on when his own respirations aren't adequate, but I think I'll hold off on removing it until he becomes conscious. If you're in the room when he does, simply press the call button, and we'll get someone in here right away. I'm going to schedule removal of the heart catheter tomorrow morning. If he does well tomorrow, we can move him to a regular room."

Dr. Fisher had stepped around him, and was gently manipulating Charlie's bandaged shoulder, his brow creased slightly. He looked up at Don. "As he heals, we need to talk about therapy for his shoulder. The bullet lodged against the top of the acromion, which is the bone forming the tip of the shoulder. There was some damage to the tendons that connect to the supraspinatus muscle, which raises and lowers the arm at the shoulder. The resulting infection caused swelling in the entire joint, which may affect some other areas, notably the tendons that connect to his bicep. I was able to remove the bullet, and did some reconstructive work on the supraspinatus tendon. He is facing extensive physical therapy, and possibly more surgery. We will know more once he begins therapy, but there is a good chance he won't regain full function of his shoulder. It is important to work it until he can begin exercises, so it doesn't freeze, so during the next few days you will see therapists come in to manipulate it. Unfortunately, it will be painful, but it is necessary. As he comes around, we'll put him on some pain medication." He paused. "Do you have any questions for us?"

"No," Don replied. He actually did – the thought that Charlie might be permanently disabled from this hadn't entered his mind until now, but he knew from what the doctor was saying those questions couldn't be answered, not at the present.

Samuels nodded. "You can stay in the room for the next few hours, but at ten tonight, we're going to ask that you go back to the regular 10-minute visiting cycle." He smiled. "He's doing well. You can relax a little."

Don nodded. Something, a tight knot, released inside, and it was suddenly hard to speak through the wave of gratitude. He managed to find his voice, and held out his hand, shaking the doctors' hands warmly. "Thank you. Thanks – for everything."

After they had gone, he stood next to Charlie's bedside and reached to touch his forehead with the back of his hand, unconsciously echoing what he'd seen his father and mother doing as they'd grown up, checking for fever. As he did, Charlie's eyes moved, and Don bent closer, watching intently. The lids fluttered, then opened, the dark eyes looked into his just for a moment, before they closed again. Don smiled. "Welcome back, Buddy," he said softly.

Charlie's eyes fluttered open again. He watched as an arm reached across to push a button; it was badly bruised, and he wondered groggily if it was his. The thought floated in his mind for a moment, and he decided it wasn't; it looked too muscular, too strong, and his own arms seemed far too heavy to lift. He tried to track the arm as it withdrew, and lost it, but his eyes kept moving that direction, and eventually found a face. A pair of warm dark eyes greeted him, and he heard the soft voice. Donnie. He felt a hand take his, and somewhere in his distant consciousness, a bubble of tension broke, and he floated back into sleep, clinging weakly to his brother's hand.

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During the ensuing week, Sean hid. Ramon was his tether to the outside world, and his provider. He set Sean up in his own apartment; it was seedy, but it was shelter. He took some of Sean's precious reserves of cash and scored him some meth; he fed him, got him a change of clothes. Most importantly, he got information on the Eppes brothers.

It had become apparent, much to Sean's anger and chagrin, that the professor had somehow made it. Ramon had staked out the Eppes house until Don Eppes had shown up, and when he followed him, he found that the agent had gone to a hospital in Loma Linda. It was where he spent most of the week, although he had gone in to the FBI offices once or twice as the week wore on. There was always another agent with him, and often his father. Ramon, at Sean's direction, actually went to the hospital, looking for information, for the professor's condition. The first time he went, the professor was in the ICU, but later in the week, they'd moved him out to a regular room, always under guard.

It was clear that no one had written Sean off yet - and Sean thought to himself that it was smart on their part, because he wasn't going to rest until they both were dead. He just needed to make sure it happened before his pitiful stash of money and his meth ran out - or before Ramon realized Sean had no way to pay him for his services. Either way, at that point, Sean figured himself for a dead man, and dead men had nothing to lose. So he hunkered down in the apartment, getting high, getting plans together; getting ready for a final assault. He knew Dillon had always been disappointed in him; Sean had always viewed himself as a failure. His last act would be suicide, but he'd go out in a blaze of glory. He'd finally make Dillon proud.

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As Charlie regained consciousness, it became apparent how sick he'd really been. For the first two days after waking, he drifted in and out of sleep; fever, weakness and painkillers combined to submerge him, and he'd only wake for a few minutes at a time. By the second day he managed to find the strength to utter a word or two while he was awake; it wasn't much, but it was a huge relief to Alan to know that his son recognized them, that his mind seemed to be working.

As the week wore on, a few things became apparent. First, and most alarming to Alan, was that Charlie was in significant pain from his shoulder, and that it didn't appear to be functioning very well at all. He could flex his arm at the elbow, and although it wasn't up to full strength, Dr. Fisher believed that his bicep function would come back fully with therapy. Charlie had a great deal of difficulty moving his arm at the shoulder however, and couldn't lift it at all. Here, the doctor was concerned, and told Alan privately that he could not predict the outcome. He stated that function would improve as Charlie healed and went through physical therapy, but Fisher was not sure he would regain the full ability to lift his arm. As disturbing as that news was, Alan was profoundly grateful it wasn't Charlie's dominant arm – it at least wouldn't affect his ability to write on a chalkboard.

Dr. Fisher kept his doubts to himself when talking to Charlie, and advised Alan to do the same. Often, he said, if patients expected to gain back full function, they actually did, or came closer to it than if they believed attaining that function might be impossible, so Fisher didn't want Charlie to know that he might be permanently disabled. Instead, he emphasized the importance of manipulating the shoulder, and was very clear on how hard Charlie would have to work in therapy. He told his patient that the road back would be painful, and require a lot of effort on Charlie's part. Charlie had taken the news quietly, and endured the shoulder manipulations without protest.

Alan could tell those manipulations were excruciating, even with the painkillers. They were necessary; if the shoulder wasn't moved, Fisher told them, it could 'freeze,' the tendons and ligaments could heal and toughen in position, and no amount of therapy would get them to loosen again. Charlie couldn't move his arm by himself, but several times a day a therapist would come in, remove his sling, and gently stretch the arm, rotating it, lifting it over Charlie's head in a variety of positions. Try as Charlie might, he couldn't choke back the cries of pain. Alan found he had to leave the room after the first few sessions; it was unbearable to listen to, unbearable to see Charlie's face pale and to watch the agony creep into his expression.

Don stayed, though. Charlie had been moved to a regular room by then, and the restrictions on visitors were greatly relaxed. He was almost constantly at Charlie's side, leaving late at night, returning early in the morning. He went into the office a few times the first two days to submit reports, but after that, he'd applied for leave, and had set himself up at the hospital. The only time he left was when Amita showed up, each day after classes, to give her and Charlie some time alone, but after an hour or so, he'd return.

After their recent arguments, Alan was heartened by their reaction. Neither of them was comfortable unless they were together; Alan surmised they were still concerned about each other. The knowledge that Sean Moran was still out there made both of them anxious when Don wasn't there – Alan could see them visibly relax as soon as they caught sight of each other. It was almost enough to offset the fact that they didn't talk.

After Charlie's shoulder, that was the second most disturbing thing to Alan. Don stayed for hours in the room, but their conversation was minimal; or mundane when it did occur. Alan had thought to himself they would use the opportunity to talk out some of the things they'd been arguing about, but both of them studiously avoided any volatile subjects. They were comfortable enough together, but when it came to conversation, it was almost as if they had an unspoken pact to let any upsetting topics be. Alan knew they couldn't ignore it – the question over Charlie's consulting was the two-ton elephant in the room – but they refused to address it.

To be honest, Alan thought to himself that maybe it was a good thing – to leave it alone until Charlie was stronger. His recent ordeal had seemed to completely deflate him – not only physically but also emotionally. He was quiet, withdrawn, not just with Don, but with everyone. Psychologically overwhelmed by the mental trauma of the kidnapping, and the unthinkable horror of being buried alive, he'd retreated into himself; it was an effort for him to interact with anyone, even Alan or Amita. That would take time, Alan knew; and psychological therapy, something that Charlie hadn't agreed to yet.

When it came to that, Alan was almost as worried about Don. Although he tried to hide it, to appear strong in front of Charlie, Alan could tell the recent events had severely shaken his older son. He'd pushed himself hard when Charlie was missing, when he'd been fresh out of the hospital himself, and should have been home recuperating. The stress of the last few weeks had put lines of fatigue in his face, and had robbed him of several pounds. Not as many as Charlie, who looked emaciated, but enough to be noticeable. Alan couldn't wait to get both of them to the Craftsman, and get some good home-cooked meals in them. It would be something at least, even if he couldn't erase the haunted look in their eyes.

In the meantime, he let them be, let them tentatively reconnect, and watched with a full heart when their eyes met as Don walked in the room. The mere act of being together was starting to heal them both, and for now, it was enough. It would get even better when they got home, Alan told himself, and he waited patiently, and dreamed of the Craftsman.

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The house on the corner of the Eppes' street was surrounded by lush bushes, and one week and one day after his escape from the construction site, Sean waited among them early one morning. He watched Agent Eppes and his father drive by on their way to the hospital, followed by the sandy-haired agent in his own vehicle. He'd spent the last two days monitoring their routine, and he had Ramon stake out the hospital. Sean knew the professor was due to be released soon; Ramon had picked up that comment while lurking in a hallway near the nurses' station, overhearing Eppes' doctor. Unfortunately, they did not know the exact date, but Sean knew he had to move. When the Eppes men were not home, the house was unguarded; once they were there, it would be nearly impossible to gain access. So Sean had loaded his backpack with meth, food, and bottled water, and had gotten Ramon to drop him off a few blocks away, and waited.

As soon as they drove by, he made his way down the block. It was around six a.m., and although he could see lights in the houses, and signs of people stirring, no one was outside yet. No one saw him make his way down the street, and no one saw him turn up the Eppes' driveway, and head for the back of the house.

He went to the same window he'd jimmied before. It had been locked, but it was locked the first time he'd broken in, and he'd managed to get it open. For some reason, it took a little longer this time, but he was finally successful, and pulled himself over the sill and quietly inside. He stood for a minute, listening, just to be sure the house was empty, and then shut the window and locked it again. It took him a minute or two to find the basement door, but he did, and crept downstairs, looking for a place to hide. He found a corner stacked to the rafters with boxes, and managed to shift a few aside, enough to worm through and make a small space behind them at the wall, rearranging them behind him as he squeezed between them. There he tossed down a hit, and crouched like a spider in the corner, waiting.

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End Chapter 21


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: Whew! Rough day at work. My boss makes my villians look tame._

**Chapter 22**

Sean lived in the Eppes' basement for two days. The morning of the first day he'd heard noises, and had thought for a moment that they had brought the professor home; but when he crept upstairs for a look he found that there were workmen there, outside, working on the roof. He'd slunk back downstairs to wait again, whiling the day away in a meth-induced haze. Once or twice, when the house was empty and the workmen had left, he made his way upstairs to use the bathroom and refill a water bottle, taking care to wipe away any signs that he'd been there. On one occasion, bored, and emboldened by the quiet, he had gone through the house, walking through each room. He'd stayed longest in Charlie's bedroom, examining his things, but careful to put each item back where he found it, before creeping back down to the basement. It gave him a sense of power; he could roam at will, could handle pieces of their private lives, and none of them were the wiser.

He knew when Agent Eppes and his father came home at night. The sandy-haired agent would always do a sweep through the house first, including the basement. The first time he came through, Sean sat waiting behind the boxes with a pounding heart, his finger on the trigger. If he was found, he would have no other choice than to shoot the man, and rush upstairs to try to take out Agent Eppes. The agent never looked behind the boxes and Sean knew that the way he'd arranged them, with the top boxes flush against the wall, made it look as though the whole pile was stacked right up to the wall, and that there was no room behind it. His cubbyhole behind the bottom boxes was well hidden, and as the agent made his way upstairs Sean breathed a sigh of relief.

It was sheer torture, however, to stay there and wait, knowing that the hated Don Eppes was just a few feet above his head. Sean knew that he was only going to get one chance at this, and he wanted both of them. So he bided his time, gritting his teeth, rocking crouched on his heels, muttering under his breath, yanking at his hair.

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A little over a week and a half after he'd been brought to the hospital, Charlie went home. He'd gotten to the point where he could manage short trips to the bathroom and up and down the hospital hall. He'd been eating solid food for a full week, and had managed to add a few pounds back to his gaunt frame. Still, it looked like a good Santa Ana breeze would literally blow him away, and both Don and Alan hovered as Charlie lowered himself into the hospital wheelchair for the trip down to the car, supporting himself with one arm, the other in a sling.

Charlie endured their ministrations quietly; the whole ordeal had seemed to, as Colby put it, 'knock the stuffing out of him.' After the first kidnapping, he'd been snappish and ornery, but now he was quiet, and compliant to the point that it was unnerving. Don had pretty much given up hope for a smile, and he was almost to the point that he was angling for another argument, a snide remark, anything, that showed that there was a spark left inside. He kept reminding himself that it had only been a week and a half, and that a person didn't just get over being buried alive in a few days. God knows, he hadn't gotten over seeing it.

Don hadn't admitted it to anyone else, but he was having an extremely difficult time with the recent events. He'd had periods of time when the stress of the job was bad, but this was different. He felt as if he'd been shifted off of his foundations, and constantly battled an undercurrent of apprehension. During the course of his life, Charlie had periods where he'd fought panic attacks and nearly debilitating anxiety, and Don hadn't quite understood them – hadn't gotten the retreats to the garage, the immersion in numbers. He did now – he couldn't escape the feeling of dread, the acid simmer of fear in his gut. He had a new perspective, a renewed sympathy for what Charlie had gone through during those times – he felt like hell inside, and he didn't know how to fix it. The Morans had placed an effective right hook to his gut – had hit him where it counted – his family, and Don felt as though he was down on the mat, taking the count from the referee, not quite able to struggle to his feet. The events had taken their toll on both of them, and it seemed like the road back to normalcy would be a long one.

Getting back home was a big step, however, and Don could see the relief flash in his brother's face as they pulled into the driveway. There was a patrol car with two officers out front, and Megan had another officer stationed behind the house in the bushes near the koi pond. Still, they sat there and waited until David and Colby had gone through the house. When Colby came to the front door and nodded, they got out of the vehicle.

Charlie had thought he was regaining his strength fairly well, but the walk to the front door proved otherwise. By the time he made it inside to the sofa, he sank onto it gratefully with wobbly legs, breathing heavily. It didn't help that it was all the way across the room; his father had rearranged the furniture while he was in the hospital to put the sofa closer to the kitchen and the bathroom. A pillow and a blanket already lay on the end of it, and Don moved them aside to perch next to him, on the edge of the sofa.

"You okay?" he asked, and Charlie nodded. Don answered with a short nod of his own, clapped a hand on Charlie's knee and rose. "Okay, take it easy, and don't give Dad a hard time."

He was trying for a smile, but instead he got a look tinged with alarm. "Where are you going?"

"In to the office," replied Don. Colby and David had gathered behind him, waiting, and Don shook his head at the worried expression on Charlie's face. "Charlie, there are three officers outside, and Dad's here – you'll be fine. I'll be staying here at night."

Charlie's voice was low. "That's not what I'm worried about."

Don squatted in front of him, and looked into the anxious dark eyes. "I'll be fine, too. I'm not going anywhere other than the office, okay? I'm not even driving – Colby and David will take me there, and one of them will bring me back here at night, until we round up Sean Moran. Don't worry – you just rest. Take one of those pain pills, and crash for awhile – I'll be back before you know it." He gave Charlie's knee a squeeze, trying to ignore how bony it felt, smiled, and got just a ghost of a smile in return, weak and unconvinced, as he rose.

Alan walked them to the door, and Don said quietly, "We've got two men in the patrol car in front, and a third out back. It's broad daylight, and Moran would be nuts to try to gain access – but he _is_ nuts. If you hear any disturbances outside, don't wait for them to call it in – just call 911; then call me. There shouldn't be anyone coming here today other than his therapist, and you know who he is. Lock the doors, okay?"

Alan nodded. "You be careful. We'll be fine here."

Don's gaze wandered to the pale figure on the sofa, regarding them with solemn dark eyes. "Yeah," he said, "I will. See you later."

Don had been in to the office a few times that week, but today felt different – more like normal. It was probably because Charlie was back home, but whatever the reason, Don latched onto it. He hadn't felt normal since the Parks case – and truthfully still didn't, but today felt at least a little better – he was able to push the constant presence of fear back down a little deeper into his gut. He could feel his mood rising a bit, and it stayed with him until they sat down in the conference room for an update.

Megan's face was grim. "I got a report from the D.A. this morning. Apparently, Lenny Angelo confessed this morning to setting up the meth lab scheme, and laundering money through Outreach."

The other three agents stared at her, puzzled by her lack of enthusiasm. "But-," prompted Don.

"But he didn't implicate Moran," she replied. "He told them that it was all his own doing, that Dillon was innocent. It's like the Tate case, all over again – Angelo's taking the fall for Dillon. The D.A. thinks that Dillon managed to threaten Angelo, and Lenny's covering for him out of fear for his life. The D.A. offered him witness protection to turn evidence, but Angelo refuses to change his story."

Don frowned. "But there were ties from the illegal operations - money traces from Outreach to accounts owned by Moran. He'll have a hard time arguing that away."

Megan smiled mirthlessly. "Those traces were tampered with. Someone went in and modified the account histories and ownership to make it look as though they were Angelo's. Someone even managed to get access to the tax department records, and altered the account ownership there – not the financial transactions – those they left alone. They simply modified the ownership of the accounts to Angelo, which was enough. Both the banks and the tax department are denying it could be done, but we know differently." She patted the case file in front of her. "Thank God, Charlie got in and collected the evidence when he did. Even though the records are now changed, we can go back and show that they were altered after the fact."

Colby frowned. "We picked up Moran's computer expert just an hour after we picked up Moran and Angelo. Mick O'Reilly – what's his story?"

"O'Reilly doesn't deny his involvement – but he says he was hired by Angelo, not Moran. He says he couldn't possibly have done the programming to modify those records in an hour – and our computer experts tell us that's correct."

"But he could have done the programming ahead of time," said Don slowly. "He might have had a pre-arrangement with Moran that if anything went down, to kick in the program and switch the accounts and the history over to Angelo."

Megan nodded. "I'm betting that's what happened. The only reason we still have a case against Dillon is because Charlie went in and documented the accounts before they were modified." She shot a meaningful look at Don, which he pretended to ignore – a look that said, '_I still think you were wrong to yank him off the case; maybe you should reconsider your moratorium on his consulting status_.'

Well, that just wasn't going to happen – the latest events had reinforced Don's decision. No matter what his team, his father, or Charlie thought, he wasn't changing his mind. He took a small amount of comfort in the fact that Amita agreed with the decision – at least there was one person on his side. Hell, maybe Charlie had even changed his own mind after what had happened – they hadn't had a chance to talk about it yet. After that horrific experience, he might be happy to stick to academia. Don crossed his arms, and set his jaw stubbornly as he changed the subject. "So what do we have on Sean Moran?"

Megan sighed. "Nothing. It's as if he's vanished into thin air."

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Sean paced in the basement, head jerking and rolling. He'd crept up the basement stairs in the morning after the agents had swept the house, listening at the door, trembling with excitement as he heard Eppes clan return. He was hoping the two agents would leave the three Eppes men alone – then he would be up against only one armed man – Agent Eppes, and it was possible that he would remove his gun while in the house. To Sean's vast disappointment, however, Agent Eppes had left with the other agents, before he could come up with an alternative.

He crept back down the stairs to consider his options, padding quietly back and forth, his body vibrating from meth and tension, from nearly unbearable excitement. He wished desperately he could talk to Dillon, to get advice. He could wait until Don Eppes returned home in the evening, but there was no guarantee that there would not be agents with him again. The only other choice would be to force the issue – to use the agent's family as bait to lure him, and to again issue a demand that he come alone and unarmed. It had worked before – almost.

His meth-riddled brain was whirling, his thoughts disjointed, and it took him nearly two hours to work his way through a plan, simple as it was. The delay turned out to be fortuitous – the professor's therapist had come to the house during the process – a complication that Sean wouldn't have wanted while he carried out his plot. The therapist had departed shortly before Sean was even done scheming. He stopped pacing suddenly, and froze for an instant as the realization that he was ready, that it was time, hit him. He checked the clip in his pistol, and eyes glinting, crept back up the stairs.

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End Chapter 22

_A/N: Another cliffie - had to get in one more. There are only five chapters left after this one._


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

Alan stuck his head through the kitchen door, and surveyed the sleeping form on the sofa. Charlie had been exhausted by the combination of his return trip home and his therapy session, and had laid down for a nap. Alan had called the workmen to suspend the work on the roof for a few days, for two reasons – first, he wasn't sure how the workers would view working on a house that had a protection detail on it, and second, and more importantly, they were noisy, and he was afraid they'd disturb Charlie's rest. As he looked at his son on the sofa, he was glad he had.

To be honest, he wasn't thrilled they were there to begin with. During the Parks case, Ray, the engineering professor from CalSci, had recommended that Charlie install solar panels on his roof. Alan didn't really have a good argument against doing it – the new panels were small and unobtrusive, and it was Charlie's house now, after all – but he conceded only reluctantly. He liked the house the way it was. Of course, he'd liked their lives the way they were, too – but they had been upended since the Parks case. Solar panels were really a small concession in the big scheme of things, and he was only prolonging the inevitable.

He stepped forward and unfolded the blanket, laying it gently over Charlie. Since his return, Charlie refused to sleep with anything covering him – even if he was cold. In the hospital, Alan would find him lying on his uninjured side in the bed, curled in a ball in his hospital gown. Charlie wouldn't say why exactly, but Alan had a feeling that he'd developed a sort of claustrophobia after his near burial, and he refused, or was unable, to fall asleep with the blankets on him. It was only after he was asleep that Alan could gently cover him, as he was doing now. He had the name of a psychotherapist that would agree to come to the house, and he planned to start working on Charlie tomorrow, to try to convince him to start to talk out what had happened to him. He'd already started on Don – suggesting yesterday afternoon that Don take the time to make an appointment with Bradford. The grunt that he'd gotten in return was cryptic, but at least he hadn't gotten a refusal. It was a start.

Charlie shivered in his sleep, and Alan paused for a moment, wondering if he was still cold, or dreaming. The former was something he could fix. He turned and headed upstairs for another blanket.

Charlie twisted in his sleep, moaning. He was dreaming again of the pit, of the dirt lying on his body. He rocked from side to side, scraping with his good arm, clawing his way through the layer of dirt until he could sense light. He looked up, gasping for air, desperate for a view of the sky. It was there, at the top of the pit, but so was something else, which struck terror in his heart. Sean Moran was peering over the edge, looking down at him, a crazy leer on his face. Charlie gasped and tried to sit up, and the pain in his shoulder jerked him awake. Or at least he thought he was awake. He blinked, dazedly. The pit had turned into his living room sofa, but he was obviously still dreaming, because even though the grave had vanished, Sean Moran's face had not. It was there, looming over him, still smiling crazily. As Charlie's awareness returned, and he took in the cold sensation of the gun muzzle at his neck, and the fetid breath in his face, his pounding heart lurched so hard that it made his ears roar, his vision blur. It wasn't a dream, he realized, with a sickening jolt. It wasn't a dream, at all.

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Alan was halfway down the stairs, a blanket in his arms, before he glanced toward the sofa. What he saw made him miss the next step, and it was only a desperate grab for the banister that enabled him to keep his feet. He froze, as an odd icy-heat flashed through him. Charlie was standing upright facing him with a gun to his head, the muzzle just under his jaw line – a gun that was being held by someone who could only be Sean Moran. He stood behind Charlie, with an arm draped over his chest, holding Charlie against him. Alan shot a wild glance through the front window, but he couldn't see the patrol car from that angle. Where was their protection detail – how had this man gotten in the house?

His eyes jerked back toward Charlie – his son appeared to be on the verge of shock; he looked wobbly, his eyes unfocused. The man holding him was an apparition – he was thin, dirty and unkempt, his face stubbled, his light brown hair long, stringy and scraggly, sprouting from a skull that sported several bare patches. His grey eyes were mad, and glittering from insanity, drugs, or both. When he spoke, Alan could see gaps in his teeth, and red, diseased gums. "You listen to me, old man. Come down the steps, and put down the blanket. I wanna see your hands."

Alan hesitated, and Sean swung the gun toward him. "Now, or I'll plug you!"

His words seemed to jolt Charlie out of his reverie; his face filled with fear, his eyes regained their focus, and he fixed them on Alan, imploringly. "Dad – please -,"

Alan slowly came down the steps, holding the blanket in front of him with one hand, and raising the other, to show that he was carrying nothing else. He laid the blanket down and turned to face them from across the room.

Sean nodded, and put the gun up against Charlie's neck again. He was holding it in his left hand; he wasn't left-handed, but the professor's left arm was in a sling, so he couldn't bring his arm up on that side to fend off the gun. The fact was, Sean's hands shook so badly, it almost didn't matter which one held the piece – either way he had to be right on top of his target to be effective. Of course, with the muzzle up against his captive's head, it wasn't likely he would miss, left-handed or not. "Okay, old man, I want you to listen carefully. I got no beef with you – just your boys. I'm gonna let you go – but you need to do somethin' for me."

Alan's heart was thumping wildly, but he spoke calmly. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sean grasped Charlie convulsively as fury flashed in his face, and he screamed, spittle flying from his lips as he dug the gun muzzle into Charlie's neck. "You listen to me or, I will blow his goddamn head off! Do you understand?!"

Alan felt a wave of fear again, even more intensely, and he raised both hands in a placating gesture, his voice now shaking a little. "All right, just calm down. I'm listening." Charlie's eyes had closed as Sean screamed – Alan wasn't sure if it was a wince of pain, or if his son was near collapse – maybe both. He opened them again, and Alan's heart caught at the sheer terror in them.

Sean was breathing heavily and his face was still contorted with hate and suspicion, but he collected himself enough to proceed. "You are going to take your cell phone and walk out that front door. When you are outside, you will call your son, the agent. You will tell him to come here, and when he gets here, he's gonna call your house phone and tell me he's comin' in. He will use the front door, and come in alone, and unarmed, with his hands up. You got that?"

Alan swallowed. "Yes."

Charlie spoke suddenly, his voice ragged. "Dad – don't – he can't do that -,"

"Shut up!" raged Sean, shifting his grip to Charlie's neck and squeezing convulsively.

Alan's face flashed with alarm as Charlie grimaced in pain. "It's okay," he said to Sean, with a note of panic in his voice, "I'm not listening to him – I'm listening to you – just relax. What else did you want me to do?"

Sean fixed his glare on him, and relaxed his arm just slightly, as Charlie gasped for air. "When you're done callin' him, you go to the cops outside and tell them I want to talk to my brother – before your son gets here. Have him call me on your house phone. That's all – now get out of here."

Alan nodded, and crossed the room at a diagonal from them, his hands still up. "Where you goin'?" demanded Sean.

Alan looked at him, but didn't stop, proceeding toward an end table. "To get my cell phone," he said. "I need it to call Don." He picked up the cell phone, and scooped up his keys with it.

"Dad -," protested Charlie. His gaze was intense, filled with an unspoken plea, which Alan could read plainly. '_Don't_,' his expression said, '_don't listen to him – don't send Don in here…_'

"It will be okay, Charlie," said Alan firmly, with a conviction that he didn't feel. "Try to stay calm." He looked directly into his son's eyes, willing him to understand – to have strength. The horrible thought in the back of his brain broke free for an instant – the thought that he might never see him alive again. It was incomprehensible– after everything he'd gone through…

Alan collected himself with an effort, and looked at Sean. "I will do everything you ask – just be patient – it may take a little while." He looked back at Charlie, and fear, mixed with the deepest love, was apparent in his eyes. Then he turned, and walked out the front door.

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As soon as the door was shut, Sean pushed Charlie toward a chair near the phone. Charlie stumbled toward it, and nearly fell into it as Sean gave him a shove. "Take off your sling," Sean commanded. Charlie gingerly eased it off, and Sean produced a plastic tie from his pocket and reached behind Charlie, pulling his wrists together. Charlie gasped in pain as Sean yanked on his injured shoulder, and tried to fight off the black spots that appeared in his vision. "Now sit there, and don't move," Sean snapped.

He glared at Charlie for a moment, and then began to pace, traversing short sections, step, turn, step-step turn. Head jerk, neck roll, hair yank. He muttered to himself, with quick short glances at Charlie every time he turned. Charlie sat, fighting the pain in his shoulder, nearly incapacitated by terror. After everything he'd gone through, after all he had suffered to keep Don from facing this; they were back in the same situation. There was no doubt in his mind that Don would walk through that door, and Sean would kill him. The terror that the thought generated rose like a noxious cloud inside him, like the smoke from the wildfires, blinding him, choking him, robbing him of coherent thought.

He lost of track of time, and when the phone rang twenty minutes later; he started so violently he nearly fell off the chair. Sean pounced on it, and stood facing Charlie, shifting from foot to foot. "Dillon?"

Dillon Moran shot a glance at the prison guard standing over him, as he sat at the table in the small room. He had been apprised of the situation, and knew that his brother was at the Eppes household with the professor as a hostage, and that he'd demanded the presence of Agent Eppes. He also knew that their conversation was probably being monitored. "Yeah, Seanie-boy."

"Dillon," repeated Sean, his voice breaking a little, as emotion washed over him. It had been days since he'd heard his brother's voice, and he knew that it was likely he wouldn't survive this – that this would be the last time they talked. "I'm gonna make it right, Dillon."

"Make what right, Sean?" Dillon asked. Actually, he applauded Sean's actions – he had come to hate the Eppes brothers with a passion that matched Sean's, but he had been instructed to try to talk his brother down – to get him to surrender. He also knew that as they spoke, his lawyer was submitting a request for his release, based on the fact that Lenny had confessed. He was hoping to be a free man soon, and he didn't want to derail that by not cooperating. On the other hand, he would love to see the Eppes brothers dead.

"Everything," responded Sean, his voice choked with emotion. "Tommy – you – everything."

"You don't need to make anything right, Sean," Dillon said quietly into the receiver.

Sean's face lit with sudden comprehension. "They're listenin' ain't they? Did they tell you what I'm doin'?"

"I have an idea."

"I went back and forth – I wasn't sure if I should, but then I thought, I'll never rest if I don't. It's makin' me crazy – I have to – I keep seein' Tommy…" his voice broke. "Tell me what to do," he pleaded, his voice quavering.

Dillon paused. Sean, for the first time in his life, was standing up for something he believed in – was taking revenge for his brother, was fighting for justice for his family. It would mean the demise of the hated Eppes brothers, and a glorious death to end a life that would otherwise be likely to end soon anyway, shamefully, due to drugs. If this was how Sean wanted to go out, who was he to stop him? He felt a surge of love in his chest for his brother, and he fought to keep his voice steady. "Do the right thing, Sean," he said softly. "You know in your heart what that is. Remember Dad."

Sean's eyes lit, and he nodded. Their father had always told them – family above all else. They should fight for each other, no matter what. He glanced at his captive, and spoke with renewed conviction. "I do – I will. Good-bye Dillon."

Dillon heard the phone click, and immediately the door to the room burst open, and two LAPD detectives strode in. "What was that?" demanded one of them. "What did you mean by your last statement – the reference to your dad?"

Dillon eyed him calmly. "Our father always told us to follow the Ten Commandments," he lied. "He was devoutly religious."

The detective stared at him, searching for the lie, the flicker of a facial expression that indicated falsehood. He found nothing. "All right," he said to the guard, "take him back to his cell."

He had no idea that Dillon had just given his brother permission to kill.

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End Chapter 23


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

It was early afternoon, the sun was bright; the breeze, a remnant of the Santa Ana, was brisk. It whipped around the clustered patrol cars and SWAT vehicles, and buffeted Alan, alternately pushing and pulling, swirling from one vantage point to another, like his racing thoughts. He felt the tension mounting to a nearly unbearable level, as he saw Megan, Colby, David, and Don pour out of their vehicles and run toward him. He'd performed Sean Moran's second request as asked, and had the officers in the patrol car contact their supervisors and the prison to set up the phone call with Dillon Moran. The first request was the one that he hadn't quite completed. Oh, he'd called the FBI office, and told Don and his team that Sean was in the house, with Charlie as a hostage. He'd simply left out the part that Sean wanted Don to go in alone, weaponless.

For he'd been left with an unimaginable, unbearable choice. He could choose to disregard that part of Sean's request, and let the FBI team and their SWAT backup do what they were trained to do – to handle the situation, and hope that Charlie came out of it alive. With that came the horrible awareness that if Charlie was killed, it would be because of him – because Alan hadn't told them what Sean really wanted. Or, he could tell them – give them Moran's full request, with the knowledge that if Don went in alone, he could very likely lose both of his sons. Both thoughts were incomprehensible, and as they approached, he knew it was time to make a decision.

They pulled up in front of him, breathing hard from their run, already wearing Kevlar, and he scanned their faces. Don was pale, an agony of fear in his eyes – but as Alan took in the rest of them, a sudden realization hit him. They were all afraid – he could see Don's expression – the fear, the concern, mirrored in their eyes. Charlie wasn't just another hostage to any of them – and they weren't simply law enforcement officers doing their duty. They were family, and it was plain from their faces that they viewed Charlie as part of it – just as they viewed each other. He knew in that instant that it was all right to give them the truth – they wouldn't let Don put himself in danger, and they would do everything humanly possible for Charlie. He owed it to them to let them know as much about the situation that he could.

Don spoke first. "Dad, are you okay? How did he get in?"

Alan nodded. "I'm fine. I don't know how he got in. The police said they didn't see anyone approach the house other than Charlie's therapist. I came down from upstairs, and he was just - there - like he'd been there all along."

Colby looked stricken. "Aw, shit..." His voice trailed off, his face ashen. _'What did I miss?' _he thought desperately. '_Where in the hell could he have been - and for how long?'_

Alan took a deep breath. "He's asking for Don to go in alone, and unarmed, through the front door, or he'll shoot Charlie." How those words made it out of his mouth, he wasn't sure, but there they were, hanging in the early afternoon air. He looked directly at Megan. "He didn't say so, but I'm sure he intends to kill them both."

Megan nodded. "I was expecting that – he made the same demand before." She looked at Don. "You know Wright's directive – you can stay on the scene, but you can't participate in this. We've got it."

Don's shook his head vehemently, his mouth in an angry line. "You can't do that – we need to set it up so that it at least looks like I'm cooperating. We can have you come in the back while I go through the front."

Megan's mouth tightened in a line to match his. "No. We're going by the book on this one – a tactical SWAT maneuver, no negotiation. If we try to negotiate, he'll suspect that we aren't sending you in. We need to take him by surprise."

Don opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off with a raised hand, and looked at Alan. "Is the back door unlocked?"

"No, but I have the key," said Alan, fishing in his pocket, and removing the door key from the ring.

Colby nodded. "That's good – if we can keep the entry quiet, we have a better shot at surprising him."

David spoke up, his dark eyes intense. "Where were they when you walked out?"

"The living room," responded Alan. "He was holding Charlie in front of him, with the pistol to his head. He said for Don to come in through the front door, so I imagine that he intended to stay there."

Megan nodded, and looked at Alan and Don. "Okay, just hang back, and stay behind the patrol car." She glanced sharply at Don, as if expecting an argument, but he was silent, and she turned away toward the SWAT team gathered nearby.

Without a word, Alan and Don moved behind the patrol car, watching as Megan set up SWAT team positions surrounding the house. As soon as the team was in position, Megan trotted over toward the neighbor's yard with Colby and David, out of sight of the front of the Craftsman, and disappeared between the two adjacent houses. A moment later, Alan saw them cross the stretch of backyard visible from the driveway, en route to the back door. He could feel a sudden surge of horrible anxiety engulf him, and he turned to lay a hand on Don's arm, needing the contact for support. He stopped, bewildered, and stared in shock at the spot beside him where Don had been standing – which was now empty. Don was nowhere to be seen.

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Don waited until his team had set out for the neighboring house, and when his father's attention turned toward them, promptly slipped away the other direction, following two of the SWAT members who had gone around that side of the house, ducking behind the bushes between the two dwellings. As the SWAT members took their positions, he slipped past them, knowing that they'd assume he was part of the operation. He headed toward the back of the house also, and took a quick look around the back corner, in time to see his team come around the other corner, toward the back door.

Don ducked back around the corner out of sight, waiting until they gained entry, and then slipped around to the back yard. He'd intended to come through the back door after them, but as he spied the ladder the workmen had left propped against the building, another thought occurred to him. He looked up toward his father's bedroom window – as always, it was open slightly – Alan liked air in his room. The ladder ran right past it. With a quick look around, Don tucked his service revolver back in his holster, and began to scale the rungs.

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Sean had pulled Charlie to his feet again as the law enforcement vehicles began to arrive, and held his captive in front of him as he peered nervously through the window. He tensed even more as he caught sight of the FBI agents, and murmured in Charlie's ear. "You just stay in front of me, and don't fight me. If you do, I'll shoot him on the spot. If you behave, I may give him a chance to apologize first."

Charlie closed his eyes, his heart pounding. He prayed that Megan would have the sense not to let Don come in alone. There was no doubt in his mind that he was going to die, either way – but he couldn't bear to watch Don die, and to go to his own death knowing that Don had been killed because of him. He could feel pangs of terror shooting up inside him, like tongues of fire, and his mind reeled from it all. He had the sensation that he couldn't take much more; he was ready to crack, his mind nearly ready to come apart from the tension – layered on top of the hell of the past few weeks. If Don came through that door, he had no doubt he _would_ crack – his overloaded psyche would explode, would self-destruct with terror, before the bullet even found his brain.

There was a sudden bang behind him as the kitchen door swung open, and his insides lurched as he felt Sean jerking to face the noise, pulling him around. As Charlie came about, he saw Megan, Colby, and David coming through the entrance, sidestepping smoothly; pistols trained on them. "Drop the gun, Moran," Megan commanded sharply, as they came to a halt. Charlie felt his legs suddenly turn weak, as relief and fear collided inside him. _No Don. Thank God, no Don_.

Sean's face twisted with rage, and he backed away over to his left slightly, closer to the front door. "I said Eppes was supposed to come alone," he hissed. He was shaking violently, nearly as badly as Charlie was, and Megan took in his condition with barely concealed alarm. Moran was clearly on the edge mentally - desperate, unpredictable.

"Sean, you don't want that," replied Megan calmly. She'd been filled in on the phone call to Dillon by LAPD, including Dillon's last words, just prior to arriving at the scene. Dillon's last words to Sean had been cryptic, but she tried them anyway. "Think of what your father would say."

"I am!" retorted Sean, his eyes wild with fear and anger, and Megan frowned in confusion. "I'm doing exactly what he would say. Now get out of here, and send in Agent Eppes, or I blast his head off!" He tightened his grip around Charlie's neck and adjusted his grip on the pistol.

Five heads whipped around at the voice from the stairs. "I'm here, Sean. Now let him go." Don was descending the staircase, slowly. He was still holding his service weapon, but he was stretching both hands slightly in front of him, raised toward the ceiling.

Charlie felt a jolt of panic, and tears stung his eyes, as he stammered, "Don – n- no..." A terrified litany began in his brain, numbed with fear. '_God, no, God, no, God, no…_'

"Don -," began Megan warningly, at the same time.

Sean cut them both off. "Lay down your piece, Eppes."

Don raised it slightly to make sure Sean's eyes were tracking it, and laid the gun down carefully, slowly, on a step behind him. "Get out of here – all three of you." His voice was sharp, commanding. "Now."

"Don -," began Megan again, but he cut her off with a fierce look.

"I'm still your SAC, and I'm giving you an order. All three of you – out now!" He looked back at Sean, and took another step down the stairs, slowly advancing; his hands in the air, slightly forward.

Charlie stared back at him, his eyes begging him to go. '_God, no, God, no…,_"

Megan shot a look at the other agents and jerked her head toward the kitchen door. "Let's go."

They stared back at her in disbelief, but obeyed her command. She sidled toward the door, her eyes on Sean. Don was still advancing down the steps, and Sean shifted nervously, his eyes darting first toward the agents, then toward the stairs. Colby and David went through the door, but Megan hesitated for just a moment, and as Sean's eyes shot back toward Don, she ducked behind the sofa instead. Without her to catch it, the door swung shut. She held her breath, hoping that Sean hadn't caught her movement – that he would think that the door had swung shut behind her, instead of behind Colby.

She glanced back at it – it was open just a crack, and she could just make out a portion of Colby's face behind it, standing in the dimness of the kitchen. The back door slammed, and she knew it was David, making it sound as though they had exited the house, when in fact; she and Colby at least were still inside. She tried to steady her breathing, listening as Sean spoke, his voice brittle with tension and suppressed excitement. "Take off the vest."

Charlie watched Don reach for the buckle on the vest, and his breath hitched. "Don, no, please," he moaned. _'God, no, God, no…'_ Tears rolled down his face, and his legs trembled beneath him. He tried to pull his body away from the arm around his neck, but his arms were bound behind him and he was far too weak to have much effect, and Sean responded by tightening his grip. Still Charlie twisted as much as he could – panic rising in his chest. He couldn't watch this – he couldn't…

Don stepped off the last step and laid the vest down carefully, rising slowly, his arms still extended in front of him, elbows bent, hands lifted slightly. He inched his way forward, watching Charlie's feeble struggle with alarm. Now was the crucial point – he knew that Sean had originally intended to kill Charlie first, to make Don watch – but Sean had pulled the pistol away as Don advanced, pointing it toward him. He could see panic and indecision in the man's face, as he slid another step closer and closed the gap between them to six feet, then five.

Sean stared back, his mind racing. His overwhelming impulse had been to kill the professor first, but the remnants of his sanity told him he needed to take out the bigger threat, the agent. He hesitated for just an instant, but it was enough.

Megan rose suddenly from behind the sofa, her pistol leveled, and Colby followed her lead, barreling through the kitchen door with his own piece sighted on Sean. "Drop it, Moran," commanded Megan, and Sean's head jerked toward them. Don took advantage of the distraction and lunged, his hand reaching for the pistol that wavered in Sean's hand.

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David had paused just for a moment in the kitchen, and had seen Megan dive for the sofa just as the door had swung shut. He exchanged a quick look with Colby, who had positioned himself behind the door, and took off without a word, slamming the kitchen door behind him. David raced around the corner of the Craftsman, not knowing or caring if the SWAT team would fire at the sight of a man sprinting suddenly around the side of the house. He had two unarmed team members in that house facing a lunatic bent on killing them, and on top of it, he still felt responsible for what had happened to Charlie earlier. He was going to stop this if he died trying.

He didn't wait for a command; he knew it would be impossible for Megan to give him one. Instead, he didn't pause – as he reached the front door, he burst through it, plowing right into Sean and Charlie, just as Don leapt toward them from the other side.

David crashed into them hard, just as the report of the pistol exploded in his ears, and landed on top of them, bouncing a little. Don rolled to the side, but Sean was directly beneath David, and Charlie under Sean, as the gun thumped hard on the floor and tumbled away. David pulled a stunned Sean roughly to his feet, as Megan and Colby dashed to his side. In an instant Colby had Moran cuffed, and Megan knelt to help Charlie as he rolled to his side, and struggled to sit up, his eyes wild, dazed, and fixed on Don. "Don?" he croaked.

Don was silent, motionless, and Megan darted over to him, turning him frantically. His eyes were closed, and her hand felt something warm and sticky on his shirt, near his ribcage.

Charlie caught sight of the blood staining his brother's shirt. "Don – Donnie!" he cried in a tortured voice, frantically trying to move forward on his knees, his arms still bound behind him. It had happened. Sean had won, his brother was dead. Charlie could hear roaring in his ears, his sight was dimming, and his heart twisted inside him in a fierce, aching pain that made all of the agony up to now trivial. "_God, no, no, please_…" was his last thought, as he collapsed next to Don, and the darkness closed in.

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End Chapter 24


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: Thanks all, for your comments..._

**Chapter 25**

Alan saw David sprint around to the front of the house and burst through the door. The sharp report of a pistol cracked through the air, and then SWAT was running for the door, as well. Alan found his own feet moving and contrary to instructions, he ran after them, his heart pounding painfully, and stopped short in the doorway. Both of sons were lying on the floor, and there was blood…

He staggered and went to his knees, and an arm caught him as he pitched sideways.

Colby darted out to help the SWAT team member who had a grip on Alan's arm. "We got another one down," he yelled over his shoulder, and he took Alan's other arm, helping to pull him away from the doorway, and lie him down on the walk. Two SWAT team members were wrestling Sean Moran out the door, no small feat; in spite of his appearance, Moran was wiry, and hatred and madness gave him strength. He was fighting the men who had firmly gripped his arms, kicking and screaming, and Colby stood protectively over Alan until they had passed. He stripped off his vest and pushed it gently under Alan's head as the SWAT team member took a pulse. "Good pulse," he said, "I think he just passed out."

Colby nodded and darted back up the steps, to find David pressing a towel against Don's side. Megan looked at him, relief in her face. "It's just a graze along his rib cage – a nasty one, but no entry or exit. He must have hit his head when he fell – he's got a bruise." Colby could see it – an egg-sized knot forming on the side of Don's forehead, and he took in a deep breath. "How about Charlie?"

Megan shook her head, looking at the pale form stretched out next to Don. "I think he just passed out. I couldn't find an injury."

Colby glanced back through the door and saw medics pulling a gurney from an ambulance, still out in the street, and he could see Alan stirring on the walk, the SWAT officer still crouching by his side. "I'd better tell Alan," he said.

Megan turned back to Don, just in time to see his eyes flutter open, and she dropped to his side as he groaned. "Hey," she said, with an encouraging smile. "You okay?"

Don blinked, and winced. "Side hurts." He grimaced, and raised a hand toward his head.

"You've got a nice graze on your side," David said. He was positioned near Don's head, leaning over him to apply pressure to the towel. "It'll need some stitches, but it's nothing serious. We got Moran – they took him out already."

Don's eyes widened, and he struggled to sit up. "Charlie -,"

David gently pushed him back down. "He's right next to you."

Don turned his head – too fast, and the room whirled. His pale face whitened further as he saw Charlie lying there, unresponsive. Someone had freed his hands; they lay limply by his sides. As Don turned to look at him, his brother moaned, shuddering, and his eyes opened.

Charlie stared blankly at the ceiling for a second, but as his memory returned, he felt the blood drain from his head, and he began to shake. _Don was dead, Don was dead because of him -_ Tears stung his eyes, and he took a shuddering breath, as the trembling grew more violent.

Megan had stepped over to him, concern on her face. "Charlie – it's okay now – are you hurt?"

He didn't meet her gaze; his eyes remained on the ceiling, glazed with pain and tears. "Donnie -," he whispered, and his voice broke, as his throat clutched with emotion.

He felt a hand on his arm, heard a voice, "Charlie." It was hoarse and weak, and it sounded like Don – at least as well as he could tell; his ears were roaring again. He turned his head, and stared into Don's eyes.

It took a moment for it to register through the fog of emotion, but then Charlie was struggling, pushing himself up with his good arm, dragging himself across the meager inches separating them, until he was sitting unsteadily next to Don – their bodies nearly touching. Don's voice cut through his consciousness, tight with pain, but calm. "I'm okay, Charlie – it's just a graze."

Charlie shuddered again; he was shaking violently now as shock set in – and the horror, the pain, the unbearable tension of the past days coalesced into one huge fragile bubble, as he finally cracked. He was dimly aware of David rising to his feet as medics appeared in the doorway, and he bowed his head as the tears started, as uncontrollable as the shaking; his head was swimming, his heart was bursting, he couldn't breathe… A hand pulled at him gently, and he found himself lying next to Don, lying on an arm – it was Don's hand, Don's arm curved around him, and he buried his face in his brother's shoulder, vaguely aware that he was crying, shuddering with silent sobs, breaking in front of all of these people, but too far gone to care.

Don murmured softly into the dark curls. Despite the fire in his side, he held the shaking body next to him, his blood seeping into Charlie's shirt, Charlie's tears seeping into his. "It's okay, Buddy, we got him, it's over."

Don swallowed hard, trying to fight down the lump in his throat as his father appeared in the doorway, looking shaky and pale himself, supported by Colby. Their eyes caught, and for seconds, time was suspended, caught in a strange unearthly moment filled with nameless emotion – the sensation that they had passed close, too close to the other side. Then the medics pushed in with the gurney and the moment passed, timelessness replaced by hurry, inertia replaced by motion, as the world pulled them back.

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Three nights later, they were gathered in the living room. They had all gone to the hospital to be checked; and the hospital held both Don and Charlie for observation overnight. The doctors were concerned about shock and aggravation of the shoulder injury in Charlie's case, and about Don's second head injury in a matter of days. Alan, too, was thoroughly examined; the doctor prescribing an EKG and attaching a heart monitor for a couple of hours – a nod to his age, and the fact that he'd passed out. Don's bullet wound had turned out to be long and ugly, requiring a combination of stitches and butterflies, and it was painful, but ended up being less of a concern than the concussion. Finally, after a scan of Don's head, an MRI of Charlie's shoulder, and a sojourn overnight, they were released. The doctors gave Don strict orders to rest, and he found himself once again on leave.

An initial assessment of Sean Moran had found him mentally unstable, and he was committed to a psychiatric ward, pending further evaluation. Don could only imagine the scene – he'd seen meth addicts in withdrawal before, none of them as badly addicted as Sean, and it wasn't pretty. Dillon Moran's attorney was petitioning for an audience with a judge to review the charges against his client, but they had yet to meet. Both Morans were in custody, the dark cloud of tension had been lifted, and things were returning to normal.

Normal was a relative word, however. Don was battling residual tension and anxiety of his own, but he submerged it, pushing it deep inside, because Charlie was obviously still struggling; and Don didn't want him dealing with anything disturbing. Charlie seemed embarrassed by his breakdown, and tried hard to act normally, but Don could still see signs that the effects of the ordeal were just under the surface. His hands shook, and his eyes would unconsciously fly in Don's direction if he moved, as if Charlie was afraid to let him out of his sight. Don could see the anxiety in the set of Charlie's shoulders, tight, rigid – he seemed unable to relax, even when Amita stopped by.

Worst of all were the nightmares; Don had gone into Charlie's room the night before to find him curled, shivering, on the floor in a ball, in the throes of some hellish dream. He had to drag an explanation out of him, but finally Charlie admitted that he would wake disoriented, and the mattress felt like a body; the blankets felt like dirt covering him. Shocked by the admission, Don had gathered his senses and had finally talked him back into the bed, falling asleep next to him, one arm carefully draped over Charlie, avoiding his injured shoulder. The fact of the matter was; Don hadn't been sleeping too well himself – but last night they seemed to draw some reassurance from each other, even in sleep. Don woke at dawn, feeling more rested than he had in days, and slipped out, leaving Charlie sleeping peacefully.

Today had been better, maybe because of the rest; Charlie actually seemed to relax a little. He'd gone with his physical therapist, George, out to the garage, for his session. They'd arranged for Charlie to have therapy at home while Sean Moran was still on the loose – it was easier from a protection standpoint. Now that reason no longer existed, but Charlie left it set up that way, in spite of the added expense – Don suspected he felt more comfortable at home. Today, Charlie had actually stayed out in garage for a bit by himself after George had gone – it was the first time he'd done that since his kidnapping ordeal. Small shreds of normalcy, but they grabbed at each one, and hung on as if it was something precious.

This evening was another gem – the three of them together, the scene blessedly mundane. Alan rose from his recliner, disrupting Don's thoughts. "I'm going to get something to drink. Do you boys want anything?"

A beer suddenly sounded like the best thing in the world. It smacked of normalcy, along with the ballgame Don had just found as he manipulated the remote. "I'll take a beer."

Alan's eyebrows rose. "With pain pills? And what about your head?"

Don sent him a small grin. "I actually didn't need any pills today. And my head's fine. One beer won't kill me."

Alan pursed his lips and nodded, his gaze turning to Charlie, who was fidgeting on the sofa, trying to feign interest in the television. "Charlie?"

Charlie pushed himself to his feet with his good arm. He was going without the sling for periods of time, but he still couldn't use his arm much. "I'll get it. I don't know what I want." He rose, and Don caught the expression on his face, the tension in his body. Charlie had seemed more relaxed all day, but now inexplicably, the anxiety was back. Don frowned, wondering what had changed. He watched them head into the kitchen and thought idly that maybe they should make some popcorn – Charlie liked popcorn.

Charlie _had_ been feeling just a bit more relaxed, but Don's request for a beer sent his gut into a tight clench. It seemed normal, and Don's return to normal was a reminder that Don's return to work was coming. Charlie tried to tell himself his anxiety over that was a reaction to Don's injury, to him nearly being killed by Sean, but he knew, deep down, that wasn't all of it. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was the end of their growing relationship – because this time, when Don returned to work, it would be without Charlie. He was no longer a consultant, no longer part of the team. They, and Don, would slowly drift away – they in their world, Charlie in his. This case had marked the end; and Don's presence at the Craftsman was just a brief respite, a short shining moment before life resumed, and the divide between them began to widen.

He pushed blindly into the kitchen ahead of Alan, his throat tight. As bad as the recent events had been, as frightening as the attack and kidnappings had seemed, this was worse. It was as if he was losing Don anyway, in spite of the fact that his brother had survived the attack. Without the work to bring them together, there really was nothing; they didn't socialize much – they were both usually too busy, and Don had always split his free time with other interests. Charlie would be in the position where he had spent all of his life – outside, looking in. An appendage – affectionately regarded, to be sure – but not vital, not close. Just like when they were kids. They'd traveled all this way, had gotten to the edge of something, and now they were preparing to go backwards. It was almost too much to bear.

He leaned over the sink, his good arm stiff, pushing against it, his head bowed. Alan eyed him with concern. "Charlie? Are you not feeling well?"

Charlie straightened and shook his head, letting his arm drop, but didn't lift his face. "Just thinking," he mumbled.

Alan was silent for a moment. "Maybe you should talk to someone," he began, but Charlie cut him off.

"Yeah, I think I need to," he said in a shaky voice. "Not a therapist though. I'm not sure I'm ready for that."

Don had risen from the sofa and was about to push through the door into the kitchen to suggest popcorn, but he stopped as he heard the last exchange. What he and Charlie had just gone through had connected them – they had gone through hell together, and Don felt closer to his brother than ever before. _He_ should talk with Charlie, he thought suddenly. He'd been searching for a way to offset the fact that Charlie wouldn't be consulting anymore, and what better way than to figure out how to talk – to really talk, heart to heart. He wasn't very good at that stuff, but he could learn. They could take their new-found closeness and build on it, grow together, be there for each other, without work in the way. It was the right thing to do – the next step for them. The thought made his hearten lighten, and he was about to continue in through the door, when Charlie spoke again, his voice unsteady.

"I think I'd like to talk to Colby. I'll call him tomorrow."

Don stopped short as if he'd been hit with a slap in the face, and his heart plummeted. He turned slowly on his heel, drifting listlessly back to the sofa, and sank back into it, overwhelmed with hurt. He tried to tell himself it didn't matter – what was important was that Charlie was starting to open up, to deal with what he'd gone through, but he knew it was a lie – it did matter. Right now, he needed Charlie as much as Charlie needed him – and instead his brother was turning to someone else. Deep down, he knew he was to blame – he'd spent his entire life holding people at arm's length emotionally, never allowing them in. It had taken a journey through hell to get to the point where he was willing to try open up, to grow, at least with his brother – and by the time he'd arrived, Charlie had moved on. The peace, the warmth of the evening had been shattered. When Alan brought out the beer, it was all Don could do to choke it down.

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End Chapter 25


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

Colby strode into the office and exchanged a glance with Megan. She rose from her desk, following him as he passed her and stopped near David, who was sitting as his desk.

"So," she said, leaning on the desk across from David's, "how are they doing?"

Colby scratched his head with a bemused expression. "Okay, I guess."

She raised an eyebrow, and Colby glanced around, and dropped his voice conspiratorially. "Don looked pretty cranky – we didn't talk much. In fact, he looked like he was ready to bite my head off. Charlie – well, he's seems like he struggling."

David looked at him, concern in his eyes. "Struggling?"

Colby shot another glance around. He had no intention of divulging the details of what they had talked about – he was no psychotherapist, but he knew that many things Charlie had told him were intensely personal, and come from the heart. Charlie had entrusted them to him; somehow, he'd become Charlie's confidant, and one thing Colby did know how to do was keep a secret. After all, he'd kept huge secrets of his own from his team for two years.

He looked back at them, weighing his words, and decided that he could safely give them the gist of what he and Charlie had talked about, without revealing the details. "Yeah – it wasn't quite what I expected. He's dealing with issues from the kidnapping, but I think it's Don's decision about him not consulting that has him worked up the most. He's really taking that hard."

"Mmm," murmured Megan. She sighed; then spoke quietly. "When it comes to that, I think Don made a knee-jerk decision –an understandable one, but still - I'm on Charlie's side."

"So am I," Colby and David chorused heartily; then looked around to make sure they hadn't been overheard.

Colby dropped his voice. "I get where Don's coming from – when it comes to the field, Charlie doesn't really get it. But he's been part of the team long enough that I think he should have the right to weigh in on the decision. Hell, what he just went through ought to give him the right. He should at least get to work on stuff in the office."

David looked at them. "So what are we going to do about it?"

Colby shot him an alarmed look. "If you saw Don's face today, trust me, you wouldn't even go there."

Megan eyed them speculatively. "Maybe we should, though. What's the worst he could do – yell at us?"

They looked back at her and she shrugged. "Seriously."

Colby sighed, resignedly. "Well, I guess it wouldn't be the first time, for me."

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Don was cleared for desk duty starting Monday, and he headed back in to work with mixed emotions. Part of him was glad for the distraction, the sense of getting back to normal, but part of him wished he was still back at Charlie's house. He'd felt ridiculously jealous when Colby had showed up to talk to Charlie, and even earned a sharp comment from Alan for his grumpiness – the same father who'd doted on him all week. He almost packed up and went to his apartment; in hindsight, it probably would have been better, because he moped for the remainder of his stay, and couldn't keep a snarl out of his voice when he spoke to anyone.

He was desperately wishing Charlie would break down and confide in him, too, but his own sourness effectively squelched that possibility. He'd dropped a couple of hints, hoping Charlie would take the bait, but to no avail - and the rejection Don felt at the failure to connect just made him grumpier. After a couple of disgruntled remarks, Charlie had regarded him with a hint of surprise and wariness, and had retreated even further. His brother had spent the rest of the week in the garage, tackling his physical therapy like a fiend, spending time at his chalkboards, and resting on the old sofa when he got tired. Larry and Amita visited a few times, but found both brothers to be distant and uncommunicative. The last time Amita had come to see Charlie she had left looking decidedly upset.

Now Don was back at work, feeling as if he'd left something important unresolved with Charlie; and worse yet, as though he'd lost his best opportunity to find out what that something was, and fix it. Although, he admitted to himself morosely, it was hard to fix things when your brother wasn't confiding in you. Layered over all of it was the residual uneasiness that had become a constant companion. He knew his head wasn't where it should be, that he should be taking more time off, talking with Bradford. Soon he'd be immersed in real life again, with only so much time to go around.

Real life hit hard and fast. There was a mountain of work at the office. Their case load had been staggering to begin with because of the fires; and the Moran case had set them back even further. The Santa Ana wind was abating, and the fires along with it, so thankfully LAPD had picked up some of the cases they had shunted off a few weeks earlier. Still, the work was overwhelming, all-consuming, and Thursday, when Don pulled his head out of a file, he was stunned to see it was after 6:00 pm.

Megan and Colby leaned against the break room counters and watched David as he shot a glance out of the doorway. "He just leaned back and stretched," said David. "I think he's coming up for air."

"Why don't you go ask him," suggested Megan. "The last time he stopped for a beer, it was with you – after he and Liz broke up, remember?"

David made a face. "That's because you two abandoned me." He looked at them suspiciously. "You'd better not pull that one on me today."

Colby shook his head, grinning. "Nah, man, even we wouldn't leave you alone with this subject. Besides, you can't have an intervention without a group."

"Hmpff," grunted David, skeptically, but he turned and headed out of the break room.

Megan and Colby moved to look out of the doorway, and watched as David made his pitch. "Think he'll come?" Megan asked.

Colby sighed. "I don't know – I'm almost hoping he doesn't. You know he isn't gonna like what we have to say – and it's not like he's been in the greatest mood lately."

He paused as David looked up and gave them a short nod, over Don's head. "Well, ready or not, here we go," said Megan. She grinned at Colby. "You can sit next to him."

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At first, they thought Don had changed his mind. David had prepped Megan and Colby, telling them that Don didn't know what this was about – that David had simply invited him out for a beer. They'd arrived at the bar and claimed a back booth, and were there a half hour before their SAC made his appearance. Colby had been just about to breathe a sigh of relief when they spied Don at the door. Megan gave him a little wave, and Don headed their direction, threading his way through the crowded floor.

He slid into the booth next to Colby, and ordered a draft from the waitress. He smiled at his team, although Megan noticed that it didn't quite meet his eyes. Don took a healthy swig of beer, and regarded them. "So, it's been awhile since we've done this, huh?"

David lobbed the first volley. "Yeah, well, teams should stick together, huh?"

Don raised an eyebrow a little quizzically, and took another drink. "You got that right," he agreed, but he looked at David as if waiting for him to elaborate.

Silence descended, and then Colby, who couldn't take the discomfort, but couldn't quite bring himself to broach the topic, launched into a story he'd heard about a recent LAPD officer's arrest encounter with a male prostitute. The story had them in stitches and effectively broke the ice, and the conversation and the beer flowed easily for the next half hour.

Don listened as Colby spun yet another story, smiling as he took in Megan and David's laughter. This was really a good idea, and Colby, with his aw-shucks down home demeanor, had an uncanny knack for putting people at ease. No wonder Charlie liked to talk to him. The thought pulled at his smile, and he hid it by taking another drink.

He'd just composed himself again, when Megan said, "This is nice, but it feels like we're missing something."

Colby nodded, and David looked at Don directly. "Yeah," he said, "or someone."

They were all looking at him now, and Don scanned their faces. "I'm assuming there's a point to that statement," he said. His expression was still mild, but they could see the suspicion in his eyes.

"We think you ought to let Charlie come back," said Megan, quietly but bluntly, and Don immediately looked away, shaking his head, his eyes rolling as he comprehended the situation.

"He's part of the team," added David.

Don was smiling now, but it wasn't a pleasant expression. "And how do you know he even wants to come back?"

Colby looked him in the eye. "Trust me, he does."

"Yeah, and you ought to know," snapped Don, his expression turning angry.

Colby said nothing, just raised both hands as if backing away, and Don shook his head, reaching for his back pocket. Megan wasn't giving up. "Don, you didn't kick me off the team after I was kidnapped – you wouldn't have dreamed of it. Charlie deserves the same chance. If he can go through all of that and still want to do this, you know it's something that means a lot to him. You owe him the opportunity."

Don threw a twenty on the table, and tucked his wallet back into his pocket, moving with deliberation. "I don't owe him anything, other than the chance to live his life, and that's what I'm giving him. He doesn't need to be a part of what we do – he's got his own career. If he insists on consulting for law enforcement, I can't stop him, but I'm sure as hell not going to contribute to it." He rose, and his gaze swept their faces, cool, deliberate. "Nice try. I'll see you tomorrow."

They watched him stride away, and David looked despondently into his beer as Colby sighed. "Well, it could have been worse," Colby said. "He didn't exactly bite our heads off."

"Maybe he's right," said David quietly. He looked up defensively as the other two stared at him accusingly. "I'm just saying I can see where he's coming from. You didn't just spend a lot of the last several days thinking that you should have done something to prevent his kidnapping. I did – it didn't feel very good. I'm sure Don feels the same way."

Megan shook her head. "Regardless of how he feels, it still should be Charlie's decision. If one of us is off his game, we don't kick him off the team – we stand behind him, and take up the slack. We all have our strengths and weaknesses." She slid from the booth. "Well, we tried, anyway. I'll see you guys tomorrow."

They murmured good-byes, and David looked at Colby. "Did you tell Charlie we were going to try this?"

"Nah," said Colby. "I haven't been over there since last week."

"Probably a good thing."

"Yeah," muttered Colby. "I guess you could say that."

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Don stood outside the garage in the early evening darkness, listening to the voices waft out through the cracked door. He hadn't really intended to drive to Charlie's – it was a weeknight, and he was going in early the next morning. Somehow, though, he found himself there, his mind endlessly looping through the conversation at the bar. The discussion with his team had undermined his sense of conviction – the belief that his decision concerning Charlie had been the right one. He tried not to think about the fact that a single conversation had been enough to make him second-guess himself – that perhaps it meant he'd been questioning the decision subconsciously all along.

He'd found his father in the kitchen, who told him that Charlie was out in the garage, finishing a physical therapy session.

"Go ahead out," Alan had urged him, "Amita's out there."

George, the physical therapist, had passed him on the way out with a nod, and Don had stopped outside the door, hesitating for just a moment. It was open a crack, and he heard a groan, then a sudden exclamation of pain, followed immediately by Amita's voice, full of concern.

"Charlie, you're pushing it too hard. You heard what George said."

Don caught a glimpse of Charlie through the crack in the door, seated, groaning as he lifted a dumbbell, his arm shaking with the effort. He had managed to lift his arm straight out to the side, and that was apparently as high as it would go. He could see Charlie's face in profile, contorted in pain, as he tried to get his shoulder to respond.

Amita hovered over him. "Charlie, stop."

Charlie lowered the weight, gasping. "I can't stop," he panted, miserably. "If I end up disabled from this, Don's never -," he broke off, and lowered his head.

"Don's never what?" asked Amita, her voice full of suspicion.

Charlie looked up at her, his chest still rising and falling from the exertion. "Don's never going to let me come back," he said quietly.

"Charlie, I can't believe you're still thinking about that," responded Amita, her words full of mingled frustration and anger. "Don's absolutely right to do this – you were almost killed. You need to let it go – you shouldn't waste your mind on that anyway – there is so much you could be doing in your field-,"

"It's not a waste." Charlie's voice was still quiet, but it was shaking with emotion. "It's more than just math – it's an opportunity to help people, to right wrongs -,"

"There are other ways you can make an impact," Amita insisted. "You don't need to do it by consulting for the FBI."

Charlie didn't reply, but Don knew that jut of his jaw, the stubborn angle of his head that said he disagreed. Don turned away from the door, suddenly not wanting to hear anymore, not hungry for the dinner that Alan had made. He skirted the side of the house and made quietly for his SUV. He drove home in silence; and at his apartment, helped himself to a beer and sat there in the darkness. One beer turned into two, then three, and he still was no closer to figuring out what he was doing than when he'd started.

When had he come to rely so much on Charlie, he wondered? Not just for the math, but for the rationale – the reason for doing it all to begin with? That passion, that naïve, stubborn conviction that they were fixing the world – righting wrongs, as Charlie had put it. Don had that feeling once, that optimism, early in his career – was it still there? Or had he been relying on Charlie to provide that too, along with the seemingly magical solutions to problems? He knew one thing – he missed him desperately, more than he'd dreamed he would. Somehow, his slight, seemingly defenseless brother had become a pillar of support; one that Don didn't even know was there until it was gone. He needed it, he realized – he needed that conviction to keep his own head on straight – to fuel that optimism, that unshakable belief that what they were doing making a difference, to chase away the shadows, the cynicism, the blackness that could creep up on you, slowly, inexorably, until one day, you found yourself eating your gun.

Was he wrong to want to protect Charlie from that? Or even more importantly, from the danger and violence that went with the job? After what had just happened, he was so desperately afraid of losing him, that it had seemed like the right course. What was clear to Don now, however, was that he ran the risk of losing him anyway. Charlie refused to talk to him about anything personal, and he'd retreated even further in the past few days. Don could see the resentment in his eyes. He'd pulled rank, and hadn't given Charlie any say in the matter. Maybe his team was right; he owed him the right to make his own decision. But he knew what Charlie would do, if given the chance – and he didn't know if he could live with himself if something happened to him again.

He groaned, and dragged a hand across his face. He couldn't decide – he kept seeing Charlie, dust-covered and lifeless in his arms, kept feeling that dagger that had found his heart when he thought he'd lost him. What hurt nearly as much, however, was the image he'd seen tonight – his brother's face, contorted in pain as he desperately pushed the physical limits of his shoulder – thinking that if he just tried hard enough, maybe he somehow had a chance at being taken back. There was a last flicker of hope still there, and Don knew he'd despise himself for being the one to blow it out.

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End Chapter 26

_A/N: One more to go ..._


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

Charlie stacked a file on top of another in the box, and sighed. Amita had stayed for dinner, but the atmosphere at the table was a bit strained, and she'd left afterwards, obviously still frustrated with him. His father was disconcerted that Don had gone without an explanation – apparently his brother had showed up, had started for the garage and then left without a word. Charlie had suggested that perhaps Don had gotten a call from the office – it wouldn't have been the first time Don had rushed off after getting an urgent phone call. In his heart, Charlie wondered if Don had decided that he didn't want to put up with another forced conversation at the dinner table – it wasn't as though they were talking much these days. He'd figured that they'd drift apart when they stopped working together; he just didn't figure it would happen to this degree, this fast.

In spite of that, he'd stubbornly refused to give up hope. He'd been pushing his therapy, fighting back the mental demons, trying to get back on his feet, as if by proving that snapping back like a rubber band would convince Don that what had happened wasn't a big deal – there was really no reason to ban him from consulting. Kidnapped, shot and buried alive? _Piece of cake; no problem. Look, I'm all better._

His refusal to accept his new status, to assimilate Don's decision, to even recognize what he'd been through, was driving Amita crazy. She'd made it clear that she whole-heartedly agreed with his brother. They had argued during the Parks case because he'd insisted on continuing with the case after his attack, and this had been vastly worse. Amita had been deeply shaken by what had happened to him, and was convinced that returning full time to academia was the right thing – and she was extremely disturbed that he didn't see it the same way, frustrated by his denial.

There was a part of him that knew he was paying a price for trivializing all of it, for burying what had happened. It simmered like a noxious brew somewhere deep inside – pushed down out of the way during the day, and rising to the forefront at night, when his conscious mind let go. He still couldn't sleep in a bed; the nightmares were horrible. Even during the day he constantly fought an undercurrent of anxiety, which sometimes bubbled up, threatening to turn into a panic attack. The talk with Colby had helped a little, enough for Charlie to know he should get professional help, but that seemed like an acknowledgment of weakness – something he couldn't afford if he wanted Don to reconsider his decision. Instead, he kept pushing the anxiety down, resolutely, presenting a composed front to anyone who was looking. _Check me out. I'm back to normal. Really. _

He gazed at the box of files. He'd spent the day gathering anything that he still had lying around from old cases – most of it mathematical analysis unintelligible to anyone but a higher level mathematician, but still, it probably belonged in the Bureau files. He intended to drop it off the next day, along with the ID that he'd never turned in. Stop and say 'hi' to the team. _Nice knowing you guys. I'm off to my new life, whatever that is. Solve a case for me, will you?_

It was late, he knew; time to go in, although bedtime was never something he anticipated with pleasure these days. He sighed and lifted the box with his good arm, and headed for the door, flicking the light out. He opened the door to step out, and his heart nearly jumped out of his chest when he almost collided with the dark figure standing in the doorway.

He jumped back, stumbling, and fell, landing hard on his backside, losing his purchase on the box, files flying everywhere. The light flicked on and he blinked, as Don materialized. "Geez – Charlie, I'm sorry, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay – you just startled me." Startled was not the word for it – for a moment Charlie had experienced a horrible flashback of Sean's attack, but he took a huge breath, trying to push down the spike of terror.

Don stooped and began to help gather files, awkwardly. Charlie could smell the faint odor of beer on his breath, and he tried still his hammering heart and to collect himself, along with the files, casting a sidelong glance at his brother. Don was normally extremely difficult to read, but emotion had spilled over into his eyes; either because of the alcohol, or because there was too much to hold back, or both. Charlie tried to read his brother's expression, even as he fought with his own feelings – seeing Don brought them to the surface. He settled for scrambling to his feet as he threw files haphazardly into the box, and they stood to face each other. To his shock, Don suddenly reached for him and pulled him into a fierce hug, filled with emotion, and then stepped back, as Charlie looked at him, first in surprise, and then appraisingly. "Did you drive over here?"

Don regarded him. Charlie looked pale, but collected. Too thin, too reserved – quiet and composed on the outside, eyes mirroring untold feelings within. It felt as though there was a glass wall between them, and Don fought the urge to put out a hand and touch him again, just to be sure he could. "Yeah," he replied, and walked a little further into the garage, wandering seemingly without a purpose. "I'm okay. I had a few beers, but I quit drinking hours ago."

Charlie frowned in confusion, his eyes on Don's back. Frankly, he was highly concerned by Don's behavior – the fact that he'd showed up earlier, left without warning, and now reappeared late at night. At least drinking would have explained the odd actions – it almost seemed more disturbing that his brother was sober. "There's leftover casserole – Dad made a lot of it. He thought you were staying."

Don turned suddenly and Charlie took in his breath at the torture in his eyes, as he spoke. "You know why I don't want you consulting, right?"

Charlie's head whirled at the sudden change in topic. He felt his heart contract, just hearing the reminder, but he kept his composure, although his voice was low and hoarse with repressed feeling. "Because I don't listen very well – I don't pay attention – I don't follow orders?" A slight bitterness crept into his voice. "All of the above?"

Don shook his head. "Yes – no – some of it, I guess," he said. He rubbed a hand over his face, and his next words came out filled with agony. "I just can't do this."

Charlie swallowed. "Do what?"

Don waved a hand, vaguely, and started to turn away, then swung back to face him, and Charlie was stunned to see that his brother's eyes were glittering with tears. "I can't go through that again, Charlie. I pulled you out of a goddamned grave – I thought you were dead – you were dead…," he trailed off and turned away, his hand to his face, trying to wipe away telltale tears.

Charlie stood, shocked, staring. He'd never dreamed that his brother felt that way – that he'd cared that much. He'd only seen him cry once in his life – when their mother had died. Warily, cautiously, he considered the possibility that maybe; just maybe, he'd underestimated Don's feelings for him. The thought brought a well of emotion in his chest.

"It wasn't your fault," Charlie said, his eyes again on Don's back. His voice came out as a croak, and he swallowed, trying to force down the lump in his throat. The conversation, Don's reaction, was threatening to bring up all the suppressed thoughts and feelings of the past weeks, and he fought for control.

Don ran a hand over his face and snorted, and when he turned he was grinning, a sardonic, pain-filled grimace. Combined with the look in his eyes, it was frightening. "Charlie, yes it is. It was my fault the day I let you start doing this, four years ago. If something happens to you because of your association with what I do, it's my fault – and I could never forgive myself for that."

"This all started because I decided on my own to help the fire marshal," Charlie argued.

"It may have started that way, but what got you in there to begin with?" Don retorted. He answered his own question. "An FBI ID, which you had because of your work with me. If you hadn't had that, you would have had to go home and make some phone calls, volunteer through the proper channels, like any other civilian. And be honest, if you hadn't done all of the consulting for me, gotten used to being out in the field, would you have been comfortable just jumping in like that?"

"I can't answer that," Charlie said quietly.

"It doesn't matter anyway," Don said huskily. "What happened here, what happened on the Parks case – none of it matters if the next case you work on is your last. When I talked to you after the Parks case and told you to tell me if you ever wanted to stop consulting, to pursue other things – well, I wasn't just referring to the fact that your time is taken up by cases. The fact was; the attack on you scared the hell out of me. And then almost losing you…" He trailed off, and looked at Charlie pleadingly. "I just can't live with that."

"So it's okay for you, but not for us." Charlie's voice was leaden.

Don stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"Dad and I, and Mom before she died, dealt with that every day. Dad and I still do. The thought that maybe one of these days you won't come home – that we'll get that phone call, or a knock on the door. I agree it's not easy – it scares the hell out of me, all the time, but we learned to deal with it, because we didn't have a choice. You've just never had to deal with it before now, yourself." His voice rose, cracking with emotion. "What do you think I went through when you came in after Sean Moran? I thought he killed you – and I knew it was because of me. I hate to break it to you, but you don't have the market cornered on this one. Why do we have to live with that worry; and you don't?"

Don was silent, and for a moment, Charlie thought he had scored a point in the argument, but then Don replied quietly. "Because, whether you like it or not, I do have a choice. And with choices come responsibility." He looked at Charlie, his eyes begging for understanding. "If I let you do this, I'm responsible." His eyes dropped and he was silent again, then he looked up. "If there was some way to lessen the risk – if you were more observant – if you stayed out of the field – Quantico has courses on increasing your observatory skill, on self-defense -,"

Charlie's eyes glimmered with interest, and a faint flicker of hope. "Yeah, I'd be interested in that," he said, but then his face fell, and he sighed resignedly. "I can take the courses if they make you happy," he said slowly. "But don't kid yourself – I don't know how much they'll help. I know I don't pay attention – I just don't think that way. During the Parks case, after I was first followed, Larry and Amita were teasing me about my driving – they said the sound of horns followed me wherever I went. I argued with them, but the fact is, they're probably right. When I get my head in a problem, it consumes me – I don't think of anything else. Sometimes I get home from campus, or your office, and I have no recollection – none – of how I got there. I must just go into autopilot mode, or something. And I do that – drive - every day. The fact is; I'm a lot more likely to be killed in an auto accident than I am working for you. And if it's because I don't notice things, or pay attention, there's no way that's your fault – it's mine – it's just how I'm wired. I'm willing to take the risk."

"I'm not sure I am," said Don, but his voice lacked its earlier conviction.

"So, what, are you going to take away my driver's license, too?" Don suddenly grinned a little, and Charlie gave him a puzzled look. "What?"

His brother looked at him with an apologetic smile, and shook his head. "It's just that Dad said the same thing – about how scared he was when you got your license." The grin faded, and he sighed. "He said he could hardly keep you from getting it, though."

Charlie felt an almost unbearable anticipation, a flicker of hope. "So does this mean you're reconsidering?"

Don's shoulders slumped, and he looked at Charlie miserably. "I don't know. I don't know what to think." He took in Charlie's forlorn expression, and his heart went out to him. Charlie had obviously been agonizing over this as much as he had. He crossed the room and put his arm around Charlie, somehow remembering not to squeeze his injured shoulder. "Let's forget it for now, okay? Maybe you could steer me toward some of that casserole."

Charlie sighed, and looked down at his feet, and then up at Don, his eyes a stew of desperation and misery. "Please think about it. I'm not sure I can live with this – this decision."

'_I can't either_,' thought Don. '_I can't live with it, either way – if I let him come back, or if I don't_.' He looked at Charlie, sadly. "I don't know, Buddy. I'm not thinking straight right now – I can't make any promises. I may kick myself for even having this conversation tomorrow. I just want you to know I'm not trying to be a jerk – I'm doing this because I care about you."

Charlie looked back at him for a long moment. "If you care," he finally said softly, "you won't shut me out." He bent over and picked up the box, awkwardly, and carried it to the door, pushing it open with his back. "Come on. Let's go get some food into you."

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Charlie stepped onto the elevator at the FBI offices with his box of files the next morning. Don had gone home after he'd eaten the night before, in spite of Charlie's entreaties for him to stay, insisting that he'd rather go in to work from his apartment in the morning. Charlie had almost asked Don to take in the box of files for him; he knew this visit would be difficult. At the last minute, he'd held his tongue, telling himself that he needed to do this, to get used to just being a visitor. The alternative was never going back to the office again, which was something he wasn't sure he wanted to consider.

The elevator doors opened, and the familiar sights and sounds of the office assailed him. Normally, he wouldn't even notice them, but now that he'd been relegated to the role of outsider, the mundane somehow took on a new significance. He got friendly nods and "hellos" from personnel who recognized him, their eyes lingering just a fraction of a second longer than they normally would. Probably not all of them knew he wasn't consulting anymore, but Charlie was sure the story of what had happened to him and to Don at the hands of Sean Moran had gotten around. The speculating looks somehow made it worse, made him feel even more removed.

He made his way across the bullpen. Don, Megan and David were in one of the conference rooms; he could see them through the glass, and Colby was on the phone. He hesitated, and then saw Don nod at him. He'd told Don the night before that he planned to come in the next day. The nod gave him permission, the right to approach, something he wouldn't have thought twice about before – he would simply have barged in. He trudged toward the room, balancing the box on his hip.

Megan and David were all smiles. "Hey, Charlie, how are you? How are you doing?" They seemed genuinely glad to see him, although Charlie could see just a hint of regret in their eyes. Damn, this was uncomfortable. He saw Don's eyes on him, unreadable, calculating. He looked tired. "Hey, Charlie."

"I had some material left from old cases," Charlie told them, suddenly in a hurry to be gone. Best to drop these off and get the heck out of here. "The files are marked; some of them are from the Moran case, and most of them are calculations. I figured they should be here, instead of lying around the house."

David indicated a pile of papers in front of him. "Yeah, we miss you, man." He stopped abruptly; he'd been about to make a reference to their current case, which involved possible large-scale tax fraud by a prominent mob figure. The fact was; it was something Charlie could have breezed through with an algorithm, but for them to go through pages of figures manually was slow-going; hell, it was excruciating. He'd been about to say, "We could sure use you on this one," and reined himself in at the last minute. Don would have his head, and it wouldn't do any good to remind Charlie that he was no longer part of this. Not that he needed to remind him, thought David. That was written plainly, painfully, in the dark eyes.

Charlie pulled the files out of the box, neatly stacking them on the table in piles. It didn't go unnoticed by the rest of them that he worked one-handed, using only his good arm. He was quiet, subdued; methodical. "I'm dividing them by cases. There's nothing you have to go through, really, you can just add them to the rest of the case files."

He was interrupted as Colby appeared at the door. "Guys, that was the D.A. He just called about the Moran case."

Charlie put his head down and turned for the door, intending to remove himself so they could talk, but Colby continued without pausing. As Charlie looked up at him, he saw Colby's expression; he looked clearly very upset, as he continued. "The D.A.'s dropping the case against Dillon."

"What?" exclaimed Megan, as they stared back at Colby; stunned.

Colby looked at Charlie as if he had just realized he was there, distress in his eyes. "They needed something else, some other record to corroborate Charlie's data. Moran's man had wiped out the computer files, but the tax department keeps hard records in their history files. The D.A. subpoenaed the records, but someone broke into the office last night. The files are gone."

"So why not just use Charlie's analysis?" demanded David.

Colby shook his head, sadly. "The judge ruled it a conflict of interest – he said Charlie shouldn't have been working on the case after his kidnapping by Tommy – the only way he would have allowed it was if we had gotten independent evidence to back it up. He's throwing it out. We've got nothing now on Moran."

Charlie felt the air leave him, as though someone had just punched him in the gut. He couldn't look at them – his last case, and it was a disaster. Don had been right to take him off it; look at the result. This was it, then. There would be no question after this – no chance of Don ever changing his mind. He found himself pushing past Colby, not even aware that he'd crossed the floor, moving out into the bullpen on unsteady legs.

He felt a hand on his arm, and heard Don's voice. "Charlie."

He looked up, his face blank, white, his eyes filled with despair, and Don's heart twisted. "Charlie, it's okay."

"It's okay!" Charlie choked. "How can that possibly be okay?"

Don's voice was gentle. He was as devastated as the rest of them, maybe more, but he'd reached a decision the night before, after many hours of thought. He still wasn't sure it was something he could live with, but it had given him, at least temporarily, some perspective, had lent an objective tack to his thoughts that had carried over into the morning. "Charlie, you did the best you could, given the circumstances. You didn't have any support from the office – and I was in the hospital – I sure wasn't helping. You did what you thought was the right thing – and truthfully, it _was_ the right thing. We know he's guilty."

Charlie shook his head miserably, and hung his head. "You were right – I don't belong here. That case was huge, and I completely screwed it up."

"Charlie, come here." Don took his arm, and propelled him toward the conference room. "There's something we need to discuss."

Charlie looked up at him in bewilderment and protest, but allowed Don to guide him back through the door. "Have a seat," said Don, and he shut the door behind him.

His team looked at him, and he could see the defeat and doubt in their expressions. Charlie in particular looked as though he was ill, and he stared at the table, not willing to meet the others' eyes. Don scanned the room. "Colby," he said. "Is this the first time we've had a case thrown out?"

Colby shook his head, slowly. "No, of course not. It's a lot like the Tate case – he had someone take the fall for him too. And there have been a lot of others."

Don's eyes landed on David. "And has that ever had any affect on what we do here?"

"No," said David quietly. "In fact, it just makes me more determined to get the next one."

"How about us – as a team – has any failed case ever made a difference in how we work together?"

Megan answered that one. "No – in fact I think we come out of failures stronger – we pull together, like David said, for the next one." She knew that Don's pep talk was partly for their benefit, but largely for Charlie – although she knew that they weren't sugarcoating it for Charlie's sake. They'd meant every word.

"So we have a case in front of us, right?" continued Don, his voice filled with conviction. "We have an opportunity to nail a known mob figure for tax fraud. We move on. And we need to remember, Moran may be going free, but we did take down his meth labs. Charlie, in spite of being given bad direction by me, proceeded; and did what he had to do." Charlie finally lifted his eyes at that, and shot Don a look of thanks, but it didn't quite erase the dejection on his face. Don held their eyes. "So let's get to work, here."

Charlie rose; his head still hanging, and began to head for the door. He knew a dismissal when he heard one. His brother was giving him the opportunity to go out with at least a modicum of dignity; for that he was grateful, but the knowledge that it was truly over overwhelmed all other feelings. He could think of nothing but escape.

"Charlie, where are you going?"

He turned in confusion at Don's voice, and raised his head. Don was looking at him levelly, but the rest of the team's expressions matched Charlie's – bewildered. "I – I was done," Charlie stammered, waving his hand at the files. "You need to get to work."

"Didn't we just say we needed to pull together as a team in these situations?"

"Yes," said Charlie slowly, not entirely sure where Don was headed.

"Well, you're a part of this team, right? We could use a little help here." Don eyes had just a glint of humor in them. "If you're up for it." A smile appeared on his lips as he saw the others' incredulous grins; and the hope flare in Charlie's eyes.

Charlie straightened his shoulders and returned his brother's gaze. His eyes were locked on Don's, as he spoke. "I need to know what conditions are attached to this."

A look of understanding passed through Don's eyes. Charlie was talking about their conversation the night before – the fact that, whether Don liked it or not, Charlie was who he was, and his behavior wasn't likely to change. He read the unspoken question in Charlie's statement, in his eyes.

"No conditions," he replied, "other than you fill out that annual waiver for field work." '_Yeah, bro, _he thought_, 'I'm accepting you on your terms, no restrictions.'_ He kept his eyes on Charlie's, and nodded just slightly.

Charlie relaxed, visibly. "Ah, sure, then, I think I've got some time for this one." He couldn't help it; a grin broke through, along with a look of pure gratitude in his eyes, directed at Don. He stepped around the table toward the pile of data in front of David, rubbing his hands. "So what do we have here?"

Don smiled to himself as he took in the scene, and listened to his group begin to fill Charlie in on the case. He watched Charlie's gestures, his quick steps to the white board – eagerness, life, restored to every movement, the smile on his face echoed by his team. It was good – Don could feel it – so right, so achingly familiar. Later, when he was alone, he'd pay for this – the doubt over whether he'd done the proper thing would return, and eat at him in the small hours of the night. But for now, it seemed right – order had been restored in their world. He sat back, watching his team, took a sip of his coffee, and smiled.

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End Santa Ana Wind, Part II – Sean

_A/N: Many thanks again to my marvelous betas, Alice I and FraidyCat. When I originally came up with this story, last October, I had thoughts of ending it here. As it progressed, I saw still another piece that featured Dillon more prominently, which will of course be the third part. When I started to post this, all of Parts I and II were written except the last few chapters. What I am trying to do is to deliver the bad news - gently - that Part III needs some more work before I can start to post - it won't follow right on the heels of the previous story. I've got it plotted out in my head, and have several chapters written, but not enough yet to be comfortable with posting. To add to that, I will be traveling in the near future, and that will eat into some of my writing time. I'm guessing it will be close to a month before I can start to give you Part III._

_I will tell you that it contains the inverse of the main theme in Part II - I'll let you stew on that - or if you're brave enough, come to the Calling All Author's forum, or the Plot Bunny Adoption Center, and ask me - I may drop a hint. Anyway, know that I'm working as hard as I can, thanks for all your reviews, and enjoy the rest of the season's episodes. See you again in a few weeks! SG_


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